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A shadow black goose
Rides the silvery pink foam of dawn,
While pale shafts of gold
float
in the morning mist.
The air is tender and light,
Like the breath
Of a sleeping child.
It smells like lavender satchels
and cucumber juice
and sugared ice
and vanilla tea.
I imagine this
Is what angels hair smells like.
The grass looks soft
And seems as if it would
Taste like peppermint.
The winter-bare branches of the maples are heavy.
Everything wears a white diamond frost.
Steam rises from the tree-covered mountain tops,
As if they themselves are exhaling.



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