Is there more to come
your Da all scorn
does me down
trees and yellow flowers
wine and thorns
wine and thorns
trips to country Mass
but its harvest time
you talk of New York
my lucky find
we danced with ease
through fields of corn
in that post war scene
your mother screached
like a hurricane storm
but you were sweet as autumn dawned
we kissed at Cherbourg
seasons drawn
on fine blue mornings
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