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Copywrite by
Nicholas Gordon |
Fifty-six is well aware of
winter,
Inklings of which permeate the fall.
For her there are no seasons at the center.
Time is not the master of us all.
Years give much to do, but little quarter.
So may she winter well, this little
daughter,
In time and out, yet well beyond the
weather,
Xeroxing a song she can't recall. |
