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145 Offering: The Child We need a salt lick to draw the deer-child, the wild soul hovering at the fringes of our existence. We need to ask it home. Or if we had a photo to post like the ones we see at rest stops that tell the world this one is wanted— Come Home. How to know what to offer, what life it is that we offer? We have nothing to lure a whole new being out of the tree edge of the future, across the snow sweep of days into the ring of our lives. Finally we offer what our own fathers gave: Names of ferns and birds, the Purple Martin house posted each year so now blue wings mean hope to us both. We offer the wild rides with our mothers: dented fenders, cars forgotten in the lot, the Neapolitan melted on the dash. In the end, we ask it as a favor: Child, return us to days we thought were past. Bring our grandmothers at the clothesline with you. Bring our grandfathers in denim coveralls back. We will all go berry-picking more often. We’ll do it right this time. ...

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