From A Window In San Quentin

By Fe P. Koons

My tears will not bring back the hour
of holding your tiny fingers in my palm
or kissing your cheeks in the solitude of the night
The dying moments of a mother behind bars
are but pain that endlessly kill the joy
of longing to touch your face my child
I ask for forgiveness that I cannot be there
When you chuckle at the sight of a bubble bursting
or running after the seagulls along the shore
when you make sandcastles washed away
in my dreams to see you.
Do you ever call my name when you cannot have a lollipop?
Your hair is probably longer now with more pink ribbons.
Think of me. Each day I pray that you are safe from the
Cruelty of the world and that you grow like a beautiful flower
Tucked in my diary forever.Walls and more walls are all I feel in here
Voices of guilt and sorrow
For the senseless passions of crime
The angels weep for promise to be good for you
Yes, your eyes are still hazel
Mirror of your soul
I wish I could see them
And tell you how sorry I am.
My baby you are always in my heart
In the solitary isolation, you give me hope
That everything will be all right.
Wait for me, my child. I am a mother in prison.



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