He has little talent
for the act of letting go —
of trusting those he loves
to time’s eternal claims.
If he could have his say
he’d do it in a different way.

He’d  like to have it be
like fallen snow upon the land
where what is known just disappears
beneath its pristine flakes.
Could not the snow be love
and when it melts
all things below
transported to above
where the vicissitudes of life
no longer matter?

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