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I stepped into it, mid-fall
and the hush was so impeccable,
so beckoning
like the gods of sleep are gathered
in a velvet-shrouded theater
and the storyteller had
made a grand gesture, and held it.
My whole heart was breathless
and suspended
on an end that, it seems
I could will to never come.
That the snow could keep falling
to round the edges off
all the world’s sounds.
All seams of thought become invisible.
And almost any word could be said.

Winter at Chicago’s historic Water Tower,
courtesy of WikiCommons


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