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Four feet small, and six.

And, as His life in us is working in,
like sunscreen in the summer months had been,
a block to save this paper fragile skin,
from books I'd read to make this heart less mean.

The word that takes a season's growing just,
to teach this lazy lizard to be still.
To learn that working busy-ness to bust,
what's beautiful won't take so long to kill.

I buried all my marbles in the ground,
and hoped that one day they might be a find,
for future digging hands, till they were found,
I turned and dug them out, I changed my mind.

I've been that boy a long time since that day,
and hidden many words, so they would grow,
if, searching thoughts would only let them stay,
the grass would soon have covered them below.

And grubs would grin, when angry ants would talk,
through teeth that were too busy making words,
they couldn't notice where their futures walked,
so soon would they be in amongst the birds.

I wipe the beading sweat off from my brow,
true feelings must be where I left them last,
I'll hope to keep them hidden somewhere now,
until the lurking shadows slither past.

The heart's a place for secret kinda stuff,
a center for the holy, special things,
no mushroom filled with air and sporous puff.
A place for pelicans to test their wings.

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