Anamnesis
by Adrienne C. Dominici
Monday, March 03, 2003
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In the attic of tenderness,
souvenirs soak,
as cobwebs of memories
so sweetly evoke.
The toys in the corner
conjure laugher akin,
To days when my babies
were happy within
the walls of this house,
that I love and adore.
Till sadly I recognize,
they're children no more.
All grown are they now,
with wee of their own.
Now only at Christmas
do they think to come home.
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