Our Lost Seasons: Lament from the Future

My daughter refuses to cut her hair.

The frayed ends are mine, she says.

I tell her how even trees shed,

And the red-yellowed beauties line the street.

I tell her how even the clouds let go,

Of all the tears they have to spare.

I sing to her about the frozen lakes,

Lying in wait for the summer to thaw,

To make way for the new and young,

The fresh and bright.

She listens with rapt attention,

Giggles with delight,

Only to tell me, life’s not a fairytale, mommy.

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