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There is a sadness
to every winter twilight,
wistful touch of blue hour
questioning past epiphanies of the flesh
and bearing the vague sense
that everything, up to this point,
have all been a dream.

Aquiline eyes poring through
a world made of glass,
fate is longing’s folded wings,
nature’s inscriptions on its plumage
half hidden
and rendered in wind song
for the discerning.
The trees are bent, half gracefully,
somberly clad in frost and
strands of sky adorning the places
where fall had recently
dealt them pain,
the price fully paid
for things that used to be
and things that might have been
mimicking their shapes
and their permanence
so it appears as if,
if you ever venture to look out the window
of your perception,
there are twice as many trees
lining the darkening street,
and riffs of a distant past
are mixed up in the air you breathe.

“Jenna” by photographer Martin Kühn


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