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Each year a crocus stretches

out of the rusty mulch.

The old faces fall; a familiar face flourishes.

“Hello old friend,” I say.

“It’s good to see you today.

Long I’ve sought to see your face,

Long I’ve waited to see this day,

But tomorrow you go to wherever you go,

And I’ll go wherever I go,

and perhaps come back when the chill warms and the light is right,

And if God or wind brings me to see you again,

I’ll see today in your face,

and remember the old and see the new.


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