OatmealMature

Oh, before I met him?  Life was stale, or canned,
And each day was like oatmeal, nourishing if bland,
Time trickled past, in tiny slow drops, always with too much spare;
Maybe I tried suicide, or tried to try, but my heart wasn't really there:
Each moment, I lived for others; my little ones; how much I cared!
And suddenly--cinnamon and raisins in my hands,
Learning to make cookies out of life's demands.

The End

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