On their brokenness

Broken, the doll was,
broken, and luved.

It was a walker.
A real marvel of its' age.

Damaged, it was ...

I know not, when.

I remember it from my youth.

It, with its' sister,
hung on mommas wall.

Luved them, she did,
Luved us too.

Momma cared for the dolls,
as she cared for us.

When I see the dolls,
I remember to care, 

for the damaged,
the forgotten,
the unluved,
and the broken.

For Momma and I were broken too.