Midwinter Peeping

the graying snow piles high along the street
mountains, ugly and frozen
the pretty white-tipped trees are gone
and all that's left are damps socks
and layers
now the feel of sand in my hair
so annoying then
makes me long
and the cover of my mother's leather book
with the doves
is bound shut tight
but I know whats inside
from a moment of stolen curiosity
and guilt
but I will pretend I don't
my tin of buttons spills again
and I am left groping at the cracks
once more
searching for something
I thought I had already





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