What's become of the circular path
I carved out of the woods that spring
Half-way a sunlit clearing
Under a maple tree to rest in
What's become of the amazing whiteness
Of the drifts of trillium or the day
I stumbled on a yellow lady's slipper
And brought you running to see it
Or the raspberries we feasted on
Or the apple trees we planted
Just twigs we worried through the winter
Buried under the waves of snow
What's become of our overgrown hearts
Will they ever come to fruition
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