Each Spring Beckons Me
A fuzzy pink sweater
adorns the cherry tree
and all the lovely ladies,
half my age, are smiling at me.
Or so it seems -
maybe they are just smiling near me.
It's hard to see
with such watery eyes,
as if I'm looking through melting ice.
Each Spring beckons me out the door,
but I'm moving slower
than the year before
and can't keep up
as the lovely ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast?
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