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This poem started with an unusually early snowfall. I’ll tell you the rest of the story after you read the poem.
Snow falls softly on cedars;
fat white flakes sift down, pile up;
branches bend, protest in pain;
white cones burden bunched berries;
autumn grass falls flat below
an ermine cloak; drifting specks
draw a veil across distance.
Tags: darkness, Snow, campfire