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I don't know how it happens

...but it does...

 

We put things aside

Even people...

To care for later

When there's time...

 

Meaning to get back...

But sometimes...

Even when we can...

We don't...

 

Unfinished paintings

Lie in basements

And we don't throw them out...

Not while there's still time

Left on the clock...

 

We were like the first eight bars

Of some great song

You and me...

Left in a piano bench

 

I always meant to tell you

And I always thought I'd have the chance...

But I never did...

 

I don't know how it happens...

...But it does

 

...just a little something that struck a nerve tonight, and I wanted to share.  The poem is by a woman, Merrit Malloy, who has long been a favorite of mine; I happened across one of her books while in the transition of "moving" to a new abode...perfect excuse to sit on my butt and take a break.

Hope you enjoy it...you may even find it touches something inside of you, too?

 

Jim

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