it's the pull
of wind that makes
the trees dance
and sing.
the swirl of air
that stirs
the woods, leaving
the old branches
and limbs
close to bare.
it's the beginning
of an end,
the cusp of a season
about to begin.
it's getting
the coat out,
the boots and gloves.
it's remembering
what snow
is like, the ice
of her frozen heart
when she left, never
to return again.
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