Do we toss good-byes around
like pennies to the sand,
to swallow up the last of us
without a touch of mind
or the smiles that we've had?

To feel the turning seasons
circling never to an end,
causes me to contemplate
the turning loose of hands.

I could no more forget you
than write without my lamp,
or in reading through my lines
not find a touch of you
which fell from out my hand.

Now as the seasons circle,
content I truly am!
An illusion it has always been,
the turning loose of hands.

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