Like a fine trout breaching
When any old smile won’t do
Her at six and me on the sofa
Holding hands listening to snow
Falling for days it seemed
And that spring morning I drove
The curving greening woods
From Florence to Ravenna
But that was with another woman
I couldn’t love enough
But once you start down that road
Of memory there’s no end
It goes on and on trying
To measure up to the future
And just there at the center
The little hinge on which we swing
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