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My Darling:

What's a poet to do if the biological clock ran backwards, seasons reversed,

snow fell up, trees grew down and opposites ran rampant?

Snow falls up quietly. I do not think of you often,

but admire the tree where we carved our names growing down so beautifully.

I write you letters, not words for you to rearrange with your moods.
My love for you is deeper than the mountains,
higher than any valley where we ran when we were all grown up.

The dried flowers I sent you last month

are probably now just coming to life.

I dream of the children we never had and the ones we're becoming
when we'll laugh again in innocence of all that is yet to come.

If I die before you, no epitaph, no tears

for it is surely a sign we have yet begun.

It is now raining, the sky is puddled

and the snow has melted into sky slush.

I need to remind you, just one more time,

because I never told you before
that my love for you is so profound it escapes me,
circling above me like the upflakes of every new spring snow.