And then–
it approaches
like a child at ten,
his years ahead
like unspooled thread,
unfolding flowers
rising from the socket
of wise ground, patted down.
White melts,
green blades peak,
and faces press their noses
to cold windows
for their last winter breath,
circles forming on the glass
with no fog left to gain,
only eyes to the trees above,
approaching the season
they like most,
in rebirth.
April 22, 2014
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