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December Window

Cold crystal smoke uncurls; the window burnswith complicated first and frozen grass, while caught between the leaves of frost-cut ferns, white ghostly roses wander on the glass. You followed, too, that starry pantomime down passageways that prism, intersect, to cross a threshold taken out of time; you learned a dark and boreal dialect.

In speaking shadows, you defined the light lost in a dance of glacial butterflies. In castles captured from a snowstorm's flight, your spirit lingers on in sculptured skies.

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Sometimes I press my fingers to the pane, attempt to see beyond those winter wings by burning empty circles in the reign of kingdoms bought by songs December sings.

Cold crystal smoke uncurls; the window burns with complicated fires and frozen grass, while caught between the leaves of frost-cut ferns, white ghostly roses wander on the glass.