old snow.
the grey sludge melting
down
the sewer,
ankle deep
as it fills your shoe.
no one likes the drip
of pointed
icicles
in the morning.
the crackle of ice on
the windshield.
the smear of it all.
the thrill
is gone of last nights
snowfall.
beauty is fleeting in
this cold
world of ours.
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