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Postcard

We awake like children
beneath the serenity of snow;
it has come at last,
a little at a time
gentle and quiet.
Only the tattered wing of crow
is whiteless
and seems loudest
in protest.
For the rest
this is icing on a seasonal cake.
Months from now,
we will forget and complain
about the length of cold
the hazards of travel
the want for sun,
but at this moment
joy becomes tangible
in a forest full of silence and snow.


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