fall down the stairs,
wake up to
a hill, moving,
slowly, ice
rushes by,
quickly, he is
not you, you
struggle, wedge
down the slope,
she holds your hand,
because she loves,
you and can see
you rushing down,
the slope, I do not,
rush either, a few days
ahead of you, I am
as graceful as a whale
on a beach, tobogganing,
I wish at times, I had
a she, to see me,
rush down the slopes,
but I am not envious,
not today, today there
are green matchstick pines,
dots of red, yellow,
blue, bright green, pink,
blurring wings around us,
to remind us, we are flying,
down, around, down,
then up, puffs of
steam dripping
from our foreheads,
we may not rush,
like them, but look
we turn our heads,
their eyes are wild,
like ours, clear, bright,
alive, smiling, in the
gray forecast day,
of rain at,
one on the clock, we run,
up the stairs.
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