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Did we not, as children, let the seasons
pour from our bosoms- artlessly,
as buds bringing to light. Colors
I painted words in pristine
tonality. The subject
watered by years of unwilled
partings. Of pages beginning
with Dear, and
ending with Love, always
love. At once
heavy and yet has never
felt lighter, clasped between
my fingertips—
yellowing crisp petals unfolding
ancient flowers in my hands.
