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My Son at Three


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My Son at Three (1978)


Under the oak,

on leaf-strewn lawn,

the boy, solitary,

bends, forearms

on thighs, to observe

some insect or worm.

The breeze rustles

hissing leaves.

The boy, unthinking,

among friends,

puts finger to lips,

and hushes the wind.

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Aren't they such a delight at age three? Why?

Such fearless little men out to explore the world. Why?

I dreaded the loss of the why stage because when that curiousity was satisfied then I would have to explain that most things had complex answers and went way beyond that simple why. Ah, to be three again. The innocence. Thank you for sharing.

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  • 4 years later...

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