These trees move much too quickly
Like thieves in the night
When the leaf vale finally flows
A softness far too perfect
To ever compensate
For the hard-luck lock-down winter
Where all was lost, all forsaken
This new thing at the gate
Has no pain left but the future
It must, like a spring, await
1 comment:
I have hazy recollections of that thing called spring. Right now it seems as if it belonged in a different era, a generation forgotten. *sigh* maybe when the ice is gone from the Great Lakes we'll have some kind of glove less summer.
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