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Sons of Abraham

bryanborland

My grief grows with the years. I count

seventeen Octobers come and gone,

 

imagine a green-eyed boy

with hair the color of straw,

 

wooden walls sturdy on branches

long since chopped and used

 

for firewood. The older I get,

the more aches and pains: a nephew

 

and a treehouse, these things

my brother would have made.




 
 
 

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