Sun splashes through stained glass,
makes patterns on upturned faces
that  history has not yet scarred.

How proud
this gathering of smiles singing,
 this innocence of silver notes ascending.

We glimpse hints of tomorrow in their eyes,
 a flash and then a quick laugh. We are not
ready for whatever will be.

They sing unaware of our worry
about childhood and its brevity.
Middle C has never sounded sweeter.


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