beyond my years

Smells delicious, deary.  I sure do love the smell of cinnamon.

Back when I was your age, when the children were young

oh my, I remember those days.

Home was the place to be.  I tell you what, all those years

of secret angel hospitality, when the winter was hostile

and Lincoln logs could start a war

That’s not what you remember.  You already know this

too shall pass on a legacy of living to inherit the summer.

You remember the smell of the cinnamon.

 

 

 

 

 

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