Though paths went on, dwellings were always onshore.
A desire to perfect things beyond perfection,
Was stitched into every sweater in her collection.
The winter that existed once, is nowhere to be seen,
Every cashmere strand there, still preserved, holds its sheen.
They smell of fresh sea and lavender of the yesteryears,
Treasured in the oak chest of drawers, in neat tiers.
The spring now— jubilant in bursts of blossoms and blooms,
Dances to tunes of velvet and songs of colorful plumes.
But there's still a teal scarf for the yellow-scented autumn breeze,
Left imperfect (knowingly unfinished) for the salt of distant seas.
The unwoven thread has been a solace for the breathing heart,
In aches of unendings, beats promise of a dawning start.
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