a gift from a loved one many years ago.
At the moment the sun paints them gold
from the tiny child to the father.
I remember, I remember, twisting each one,
placing them on the ledge in the bedroom,
a once magical place, now like a tomb.
I prefer to forget the bitter arguments
recalling with fondness Saturday mornings,
sun caresssing her yellow locks.
Oh, how fortunate we do not know
what callous fate has in store.
Russian dolls standing in a row,
a gift from a loved one...many years ago.