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She was a beautiful child
born the day
the river Shannon overflowed
A body of water
that could not be contained
was her name
Her beauty
like Venus
was more poignant
for a missing wing
Her burden
was to be born
into a world of silence
deeply veined
by things unsaid
She danced
She drank
She laughed
She loved
She cursed
All the while trying to raise herself
up against the silence
But with only one good wing
it is hard to fly
She loved the genteel worlds
of cats, library books
and complex recipes
Egg whites lived
in her thrall
Her hearty sometimes over-loud laugh
usually ended with a mischievous twist
Knowing that we are all in need
She was the quickest to extend her hand
Friend and confessor
She was the one you could call
The one you could count on
She looked after the elderly
Nursed friends back to health
or ushered others with gentle ministrations
through that last door
All are born
With one good wing
And another hanging limp
Our gift is the burden
We are not certain to overcome
Some embrace this awkward destiny
Others flee
It takes an entire life
to learn to fly
like Shannon
broken wing and all
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