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It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,Like the memory of scales descending the white keysOf a childhood piano--outside the window, palms!And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .So much has fallen. And I, who have listened for a stepAll afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,Already in memory. And the terrible scales descendingOn the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.Donald Justice (1925 - 2004)
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