There will come a space
when Evelyn will turn.
She’ll touch a yellow bird,
or watch a squirrel crack a seed.
Or maybe the sight of a single blossom,
or the thought on one clear night
that even the stars will die.

She’ll put the ring on her finger
and  we’ll come.
And she’ll keep her house
and tend her garden
and everything will change,
the way it’s always been.


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