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westandhome

were seasons
undecided
by a measure made
of days
tis loss we bear –
a lifetime
shorter still

time has melted
here
and I don’t feel
the same as then
no matter
what I should
or what I will

petals lie awake
beside promise
sworn to keep –
an early spring
and one more
letting go

green betrays
the last goodbye
November
spoke about –
pastures buried deep
beneath the
snow

. . .

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