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Winter Morning at Windows, Reading Emily Dickinson


Everything the color of the fog.

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Slender branches of weeping cherry

curve, supple in a frozen season.

The soft-white orb of a sun slants

through the gauze,

hints of a world outside this.

You imagine the explicit blue

above, the misting of the earth

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a white illusion.... Slowly perceptible

in the softening, clear water

drips from trees and fences,

the deepened landscape clarifies

and lifts into azure.

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