Ah the sun!  She has returned
full warm upon the skin.  Goes
in behind a cloud and the
cold mountain wind burns.
My washing waves and jerks:
I remember hanging it near
a cliff by the sea - the
glittering of the vast expanse
of water, I loved it.  So
much under the bridge, my
list of regrets is so long I
cannot see the end of it: no
And she, still sleeping over
the hill is not here, never
will.  The paper, once it is
folded, crushed in the hand,
when smoothed-out will never
be flat and pristine again,
ungreased, unfoxed.
I have to find my way
in this place, this plot.
Who knows how much time.

One Year Round The Sun
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