of winter
that we lie in.
a lovely
delay of life. a place
to contemplate
the past,
and to organize
the present.
the bare lines of trees.
the metallic
stream.
how kind the grey skies
are
keeping us indoors,
our ears to the window
awaiting another storm.
with no where to go
no pressing engagement
to attend to.
we stay put with
loved ones.
let those north winds
blow
and blow
and blow.
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