Years hold the pictures as youth

fills in where legs ran forever; trees

envied the quickness.  Warm days touch

the side of faces; a silent act of

unconcern.  Empty chairs hold the shadows

several times removed; their song is a

story of before.  Fondness eventually waits

for no one.  The clock of seasons protects

its secrets of the dreams we keep;

unanswered, unshared.


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