The St. Clair flowed
Towards Erie,
As we walked to
The headwaters,
Where Huron emptied
So seemingly endless.
On Sunday drives
I never noticed signposts
Flying by.
On the court, Love,
I crouched, amazed,
At your service game,
Never ready for
The backhand.
Idle times lead
The girls to womanhood.
I'm left with celebrations
On celluloid,
And digital grasps
And loosening fingers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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