I had not seen her in eighteen years:
Back when I last saw her delicate frame
Which reminded me of the smallest limbs
On fruit trees, the ones so slender yet bearing
All of the weight.
I was surprised when she called me by name.
I had not recognized her withered,
As if it were someone who had not felt
Winter in a long time. Her delicacy now
Was of limbs shorn
Of any fruit as in a brutal September.
She was still slender, but brittled
By seasons and strain. I knew her voice,
Radiant with the kind firmness
She had always had
And looking into her eyes, I saw them hold
That same beauty safe from the cold.
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