It was a small day
In that all the holes were smaller:
There was no gasping
No gulping
No engulfing
No ragged rims
No yawning gaps
No giving birth
No daring whims
No stretching thin
No bursting forth
It was a more fine grained
More staid kind of day
Too small for triumph or trauma
Nothing to write home about,
Grandmother would say.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 8, 2013
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