Where do all the Pooh sticks go, you lovingly selected,
dropped in the water, on their way? Then ran across the bridge
to witness how they fared, alone, without your guiding hand.
All now slither, out of sight, eager in the rippling stream;
dashing, tumbling, burbling to experiences; wondrous and new.
Wonderlust will end too soon for some; a moss-grown...
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