| There are times that walk from you
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| Like some passing afternoon
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| Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
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| And she chose a yard to burn
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| But the ground remembers her
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| Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms
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| There are things that drift away
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| Like our endless numbered days
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| Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
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| And she’s chosen to believe
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| In the hymns her mother sings
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| Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves
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| There are sailing ships that pass
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| All our bodies in the grass
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| Springtime calls her children 'til she lets them go at last
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| And she’s chosen where to be
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| Though she’s lost her wedding ring
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| Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds
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| There are things we can’t recall
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| Blind as night that finds us all
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| Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
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| But my hands remember hers
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| Rolling 'round the shaded ferns
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| Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I’d never learned
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| There are names across the sea
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| Only now I do believe
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| Sometimes, with the windows closed, she’ll sit and think of me |
| But she’ll mend his tattered clothes
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| And they’ll kiss as if they know
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| A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone |