Its destiny tied into yours, fate has spoken.
It carries through the seasons, awaiting its chance, the moment.
Its call is a symphony of pure whispers, of your beauty.
Fall: A tree of golden leaves, unshaken like the strength of your words.
Winter: A light snowfall, your smile an imprint on snowy mounds.
Spring: New growth, like the snare of your lips.
Summer: Orange warmth, like the grip of your hug.
A single thought floats upon the winds wings.
Declaring it a message from me.
It has traveled from northern springs,
To the fervor western blue seas.
Its birth of ardor lore,
With winged wings it has soar,
To find its meaning, its due.
To the person I'm thinking about always, you...
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