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One Account of Spring

Motes of early dark chlorophyll spot
colour-dead precincts I walk through,
caught in the cold-warped lense of February.
Mercury sky bleeds blue,
waning to yellow from brief green
seamless toward empyrean's round,
twilight often overlooked.
The rarest tinge pink, like buds
new enough to mount a bezel
woven through strata of cherry branches.
And then the first star, like a diamond
at the bottom of a great ocean,
sinks slowly west.
Snowfall for not one hour
and already our footprints
carry us backwards
through time and space unerring.
Every orange street-lamp an illumination,
its own day and night while starting home.

More coming soon.

1 Mar 07

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(21 more poems by this author)

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