Spring

Snow melts in giant gunpowder mountains,
Unevenly arrayed trumpets of—
A locket from which summer will—
spring.

I’ll swear not
To drop it.
But I will.
And it’ll fall
And I’ll try
To catch it.

But the golden locks of summer
Will pass between my fingers
And I’ll be left holding
A past half-lived
And half-remembered.

Snow
Snow

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