She wasn’t ours to keep, we knew.
Tiny fingers, tender toes, and eyes
like dark blossoms that followed us
everywhere those days she was dying.
We slept in shifts so someone
was always there to hear her breathe.
Each precious sigh was a miracle,
and watered the fertile fields where hope grows.
We clung too hard to hope, I think.
We tore it from the ground.
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