by Julianne Carlile
That baby doll
with the real eyelashes,
that cooed and wet,
with the velvet sashes,
that Santa for some reason
never brought,
the one I waited for,
for nought,
surpasses all others
through all the seasons:
all memories, all presents,
all dolls, all reasons.
Copyright ©:
Julianne Carlile
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Last updated February 19, 2025