
The wind whispers
in my ear
It’s time
My voice small
and weak replies
I’m not ready
Raindrops drip
from swollen clouds
It’s time
My eyes run with rain
and tears
I’m not ready
The trees bend
lifting me up
It’s time
My fathers hand stretches
down from above
I’m not ready
No more pain he says
I hold his hand –
and go
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