A part of me sits by the window
waiting for your return.
I wonder what my hurry is
and why it is I yearn
to know the seasons one by one
as quickly they pass by.
I'm never satisfied for long;
it almost makes me cry.
And yet when winter passes again,
I doubt I'll even glance.
No quilt of white will I view
on which to play and dance.
And even if by some strange fate
I hear the snowflake's drummer,
I'm sure at once I'd be entranced
by fickle thoughts of summer.
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