This is a sevenling born of all the Feels provoked by my two elder daughters going off to school camp today, which has coincided (because: of course!) with a bad patch for me health-wise, including with my anxiety.
A sevenling for the flight of the swan children
Three things they each packed away, in flower-scattered suitcases:
The patterned linen that shields their sleep; violet-scented soap in jars;
The battered soft toys that they still cling to, adrift on the night sea.
Three things I remember, clear as summer glass:
The scent of their infant heads; the tug of rosebud mouths at milk;
The drowsy somnolence of the afternoons when we rested together.
The swans, on the wing, find their place in the arrowhead, and spiral from sight.
This is post 4 in NaBloPoMo. 4 down, 26 to go!
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