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In the movie Groundhog Day,
Bill Murray has to live the same
day again and again.

The day of sun and wind,
when we met at the Blue Danube,
would be my choice, if I could choose
one day to live
over and over.

We left and took a walk;
on narrow streets
you told me about growing up
in London, Irish Catholic;
by the beach I talked
about my life, laughing:
all my stories so sordid;
as kites soared high,
I felt free
to tell you anything.

I wouldn’t have to improve
my endlessly repeating,
already perfect day,
since I didn’t know yet
the chilly wind
meant you would soon turn cold.

Each year the groundhog,
on his day, comes out
and sees his shadow or he doesn’t,
predicting more of winter
or coming of an early spring;
I never heard this year’s prediction,
but it feels
like a long, long winter.

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