Wilted flowers decorate the yard outside my window, limp
shapes remaining from stiffer days, no scalding sunlight left to lift their
heads, nothing to inspire them, nothing to stir up warmth , not stroke of even
early spring, regardless of what the groundhog says, winter leaves this
landscape strewn with the remains of what was once vibrant, and though I look
ahead to when the sun returns and warmth stirs life back into the lifeless, it
is never the same, the absence of that tender time when all was still possible,
when life seemed full of endless promise, when these flowers bloomed at the
mere mention of your name, or at its recollection of brightness you inspired,
all lost now in the cold and no hope it can be reborn.
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