The Eleven

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red-babies

 

Eleven pieces of clay
molded by a master sculptor,
a master with a sense of
humor (and a love for cats)

Now they wait, faces raised
innocent, expectant, in
wonder at what is to come —
that breath of life or perhaps
a remolding, a breathless
rush into an unknown world.
 
 
This poem was written for Miz Quickly’s Day Seventeen challenge to write a poem inspired by the picture above. Thanks for a nifty prompt, Miz Q.

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