The little miracles of life,
Those most unexpected,
The ones that come out of the blue,
Those must be God directed.
The mist that slips out of the bay,
Silent, undetected;
Wild geese winging through the dawn,
In glass-like waves reflected;
The dying spark, its flame near quenched,
Redeemed and resurrected.
We almost lost Popsi today, but he’s fighting back and holding his own. It’s brutal and excruciating, but he's not one to give up.
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