Cold

This a winter leftover.

 

Cold the night.

The slivered crescent moon rises,

ascendant energies in a light-framed sky.

Warm tea eases the restless wanderer back to slumber.

 

Between dawn and somber night,

crystals climb from the frozen lake,

dance
— and then bind to desolate branches in star light.

 

And as morning approaches,

the icy filigrees grasp every branch and pine needle,

and bear witness to creation’s dogged ways.

 

At dawn a white coat clings.

It propels a sluggish soul to trek to the whispering wood,

where the sun scales the arc of day,

and lucid tendrils relax their grip when an errant exhalation passes by.

 

They spin, they dance,

like the lacewings of summer.

 

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