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| In the blossoms of her spring she wakes from winter’s hibernation. The warmth defrosts her icy lakes. Robins chirp in celebration. As far as eye can see, it seems Nature’s tending to her brood. From salmon spawning in her streams to deer a-fawning in her wood. Onward she marches to her inner drummer to a melody of sweet romance. A nightingale sings oh so softly of summer when fireworks fly and fireflies dance. Like a shadow she will fade and quiet she will go. By cover of the oak tree shade or beneath star-studded throw. In the crisp autumn air caws an autumn crow. The trees, they don their autumn flair. The birds know where to go. Nothing’s left, no tree nor creature and she is left alone. No color nor distinguished feature nor solitary stone. Strick with grief, she lashes out with waves of stoic snows. She’ll throw a fit, and cry and pout but in her heart, she knows, that this is for the best. Her children aren’t gone for good. They’ll soon return to the nest, as they well know they should. |
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