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Yesterday I witnessed what a mother’s love is all about and why I continue to know there are angels in the high desert. Aren’t we called to be the hands and the feet of our creator? I witnessed that yesterday. I awakened on this Sunday at 5:00 a.m. and not because I felt rested or because I’d had enough sleep. I awoke because I have writing in my soul and sometimes, especially in those times I need to put on paper what is stirring in my being. I will let this poem or this piece of prose explain to you why I couldn’t sleep.
A family member whom I’ve very proud of prompted all this non sleep and this urge to show the world how there are still angels, here on earth, being the hands and the feet.

Foster Mom

They come in the night,
Or the morning,
Or in the heat of the day.
They come with wounds,
and bruises,
and tears dripping down upon the hearts
of innocence lost.
She bends down and caresses them,
to the safety of quiet words.
“You’re safe here.”
They smile and hold her hand,
and their eyes still hold a small glint of light.
She whispers in their ears,
as she draws them to her bosom,
and trys to heal the wounds,
that can’t be seen,
the wounds that bring bad dreams.
She provides structure,
and guidance and love,
they’ve never felt.
A song in her heart,
guidance in her step,
as she steadies and leads,
one step at a time.
Back to the beginning,
where innocence is recovered,
and bruises and cuts are no more,
and the nightmares fade to the joy,
of quiet sleep.

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