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The Milkman Spring
sometimes brings Back
thoughts of things once Thought
long forgotten, Like the
milkman In that
small prairie town, A gangly
fellow with Big feet
and large hands, Everyone
looked knowingly At one
another when he Passed or
drifted into
Conversations, He used to
have dinner At a
friend’s house, His mom
was a widow, He was
always adamant It was all
to do with church, That’s
when we began to Realize
that there was more To
spirituality than hard wooden Benches,
long boring sermons, and What
seemed like a waste of sunshine Hours
memorizing long verses that
Contradicted what was happening In that
small prairie town. Stephen Nesbitt © . |
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