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Young Hands Holding Old Hands

You and Me

 ​You and Me 

   DF 11.15. 2025

 

   Wrinkled I was first

   as you held my infant me.

   I was more scared when

   you raised me up than

   when you let me be.

   With two feet on the

   ground, I ran behind you.

   My hands pushed up your air,

   and when safe, your

   pant legs, too.

   Only for a short moment, today,

   I would iron out the wrinkles

   on your eyes.

   Naïve me hopes to delay

   looking up -- at the skies.

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