The cows are lowing tonight
in the field below our
small, white house.
It reminds me of my babies,
many years ago, in their
small, white crib.
I would sit with them,
lowing, and rocking, and
giving milk to their thirsty lips.
We sustained each other
in our small, white house.
This poem is for my children, Zak and Taj. You inspire me every day, in every way. Thank you for coming to me.