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The wind howls
like a soul lost begging
to be saved from itself
and the windowpane
is blemished on the outside
where it pressed its icy fingers
and the walls tremble

love, you promised me summer
when you handpicked me
like a flower
from the eye of a perfect storm
but the leaves were already
browning when you carried me
over the threshold
and it steadily got colder
like a pale fruit falling
through a space of
frosted glass and nostalgia

the sun sleeps in till late
and is daily rushing
to walk out the door
leaving us to each other’s charge
surrounded by the howling night
and its pack of wolves
prowling the city streets

love, was it part of your design
that we should wait a year
before there is enough light
to feed the blooms
and keep the colors awake?
love, your wisdom paints me
with lingering dreams
and who’s to say
we can do justice to spring
long before it begins?

“Estes Park” by photographers Jason and Gina Grubb


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