Tempus Fugit

I gaze down at your weary head
From above--a rare view
And tally the silver
Threads of hair
Emerging as if summoned
By some icy thought

You slide your hands against
Fresh stubble
And I am struck very sharply
By the sadness of it

How strange that we will
Someday sink
Beneath indifferent soil, and thus
(As all things must)
These moments bury, too

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