Winter

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The frosty carpet grass sticks, 
Unforgivingly, beneath my feet.
The sharp fresh air flatters my lungs.
But for a cold, modest breeze, the air holds still.

I can almost smell it.

Winter’s careful workings, 
Its gentle, passive movements,
Play with nature’s purpose,
Unfazed by wind or opinion.

A simple calling,
As if awaiting something grand,
Lingering with patience, feathery leaves,
Delicate notes from a lonely sky.





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