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A Poem: Meeting Place 

On the mug

my mother held—

where birds she loved


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


Speaking of...

  • A poem by Joe A. Oppenheimer.

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