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Turning

I do not turn back the clock
do not try and push the snow back to the sky
with my red, raw palms
do not gently shake each blade of grass free from the snow
but let the seasons change
the baby toys get put away
and the fruit turn old and sour
I do not hold on to whispered promises
which, like the fruit, expire
but let them fall
like sand between my fingertips
the tighter you hold on
the more it slips away
but my mother will brush the sand from my shoulders again
and my nose will turn pink and warm
but for now I sit
the fresh snow muffling my thoughts





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