| Mother of spring
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| Her branches cradle sleeping buds
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| Yawning open
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| Welcomed by an aging man
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| He greets them fondly
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| With memories of when
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| Her boughs were arms that held him
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| As a younger man together
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| They would marvel
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| At the birth of springtime
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| Now he stands beneath the apple blossoms
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| Every year where they used to go walking
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| And he tells her about the summer and the autumn
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| The winter in his heart
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| And their apple blossoms
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| In summer they would dream
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| Of being three and smile
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| Imagining her round
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| As the apples on the ground
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| That fall they loved and waited
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| But winter came too soon
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| Before their seed could bloom
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| She wilted from the chill
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| And all fell cold and still
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| Now he stands beneath the apple blossoms
|
| Every year where they used to go walking
|
| And he tells her about the summer and the autumn
|
| The winter in his heart
|
| And their apple blossoms
|
| As he opened the earth to receive her
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| He prayed heaven would be waiting to meet her
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| He kisses her cold cheek goodbye
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| But he couldn’t surrender the hopes they had sired
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| So in her folded hands
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| He placed a seed
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| From their favorite tree
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| And he laid her to rest
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| 'neath a blanket of white
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| Until they meet again in the springtime
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| Now he stands beneath the apple blossoms
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| Every year where they used to go walking
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| And from above she’s always watching
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| But her body lies 'neath the apple blossoms…
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| Mother of the spring
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| The sleeping buds she cradles
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| Slowly yawn open
|
| Welcomed by an aging man
|
| He greets them fondly… |