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A Poem: Meeting Place 

On the mug

my mother held—

where birds she loved

flew

under the storm

painted in grey,

over blue spruce, green pine,

and brown earth—

for years

she and I

almost touched

on its rim.

Our hands

almost joined

on its grip.

Then careless,

I let it slip

and shatter.

With no where else

to rendezvous,

we'd never

be together

again.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Joe A. Oppenheimer.

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