Is there a tune
more happy
than a daughter’s windchime laugh?
A silence
more crushing
than her rolling tear?
Is there a breeze
more cooling
than a son’s slumbered sigh?
A thought
more awesome
than the question that he asks?
And is there a truer joy
when I am the clown?
Shame when I accuse and rage?
Peace when I pull up the sheet?
Pride when I strike the flint?
I made these kids and I make these kids. And they make me.
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