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ThanksgivingWe reunited in seasons, when we were at our best end of my winter and start of your spring; your Indian summer, beginning of my fall. Who knew the times our tinkering paths would cross? We would gather up and rub our stepped on stones. like Saint Stephen, caressing every bruise and wound thank each for glory and leading us here, these moments We never fought fair and always left marks, for another year. Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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