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Cliched ‘fluff,’ stuffs
grass with coughs, too
old to mold, too young
to hold, it stops our growth,
and soaks our coats, and
stones our moans, so we
stop still, and shake hands,
today, with skis and skates,
and laughs of craft, and
cliched ‘fluff,’ never enough,
too old to scold, too young to
be cold, we forget our frets,
meet sleet with heat, and
carve our lives with neither
frost, nor ice, neither stress
nor lies, we live our live our lives,
for once, for once, with snow.





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