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Treasured Tracks

Gently, softly, the snow blows through the air,

Drifting down, down, down, the flakes fall on my hair,

Glistening, sparkling in the moonlight now,

The white canvas is peppered with tracks,

Tracks in rows going round the house,

Small, treasured tracks made yesterday,

That won’t be made again.

The square of dirt uncovered near the shed,

Is slowly spotted with snow,

The footprints, those once lively footprints,

Are almost gone by now.

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