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This Canvas

Dead, so colorless, you say,
And choking summer's glow,
For earth is white and sky is gray,
While nothing breathes below.

Alive, I say, so colorful
For, seen in simpler views,
Faintest beauty grows wonderful
Magnifying subtle hues.

While you await perfection
That spring doubtlessly holds,
You point the wrong direction
As this canvas unfolds.

Wait for the sun? It's screaming
Off every flake of snow!
And through icicles beaming
'Cross all the world will know.

The spring peacefully slumbers
Beneath a mirror's light,
Like stars that laugh asunder
Yet only shine at night.

For would you dare to make a sound
While such a force exhales
To stir the empty limbs around
And breathe these unseen gales?

The season shows, not bitterness,
But candid, wide-eyed life
That turns the land to wilderness,
Puts forth a dimmer light.

It breaks millions of unheard sounds,
Touching the seldom felt,
A heartbeat rushing through the ground,
Ceasing as the ice melts.



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