Our summers are like your winters
Great drifts of rolling heat pile up
Like your plowed snow and iced trees
And their silence is almost universal
As when only one bassoon is playing
And the conductor is crying
Not for the melody alone
But because he forgot to kiss
Someone on the way out the door
Your winters grieve for our summers
Our summer letters get lost in the mail
But come our springs and falls
You have to admit it's best
That everything collapses and unfolds
And finally the truth's exposed
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