Snow comes and melts, even though it is still cold, like
magic, there then not there, my life evaporating before my eyes, a rabbit in
the hat trick, the card I pick the magician predicts, all things – as George
Harrison said – must pass, and I miss them, even the painful stuff, stirring up
in me that other adage of “better to have…” which I do not believe down deep,
where the pangs still reside, and I dredge up, things that also come and go, or
as she said once, mostly go, the snow fall at dusk that vanished by dawn, the clutched
memory that slips through my fingers as snow turns to ice then to water, dripping
away, I love the snow, but hate to see it go
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