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I've done nothing all day that a woman should,
except keep the home fire going and bring in chopped wood.

I wrote to a daughter whose father had died,
tried to write something about him but nearly cried.

Signed up for church homeless interfaith volunteer work,
then argued with sons and felt like a jerk.

I should have cooked dinner, perhaps a large ham,
instead I read about math and sat right where I am.

I read about Van Gogh and his spiritual quest for God,
"ghost paintings" he made then destroyed, how odd.

It's the burden of truth artists must bear or sell,
the road goes through heaven; the road goes through hell.

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