First Day Meeting
Behold,
how plain brown wood
touched suddenly with sun,
is gold.
~Edith Heilman
This poem was brought to me as a gift from a darling friend and Friend, Barbara, who is a regular at my coffee house. She is over seventy, and so full of life and light. This poem was written by her mother, who died when Barbara was eleven.
Isn't that poem just brimming?
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