How many solemn sunsets did I miss
when I was two or three? It's only right
I can't recall the press of evening's kiss
from way back then. I felt no haunting loss,
for Mother rose my morning, set my night.
How many solemn sunsets did I miss
when I was just sixteen, so full of fuss
and intrigue, burning red at every slight?
I can't recall the press of evening's kiss,
but if he asked, I knew I'd answer, "Yes."
I even prayed to stars, "I wish he might."
How many solemn sunsets did I miss
when I was twenty-five? I would caress
instead my newborn's tiny fists balled tight.
I can't recall the press of evening's kiss
since, all my life, my orbit wrapped its pass
around some brighter sun, some whiter light.
How many solemn sunsets did I miss?
I can't recall the press of evening's kiss.
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