This storm has escaped from winter and fled
into the realm of warming.
It is insistent and demanding, a doomed tyrant,
whatever bluster he might bring.
The light is turning from dun to pale blue-grey.
Snow is falling like pellets of sorrow
as I sit wrapped in wool.
The skeletal trees are forever dancing,
bony fingers clacking icy castanets.
I don’t know if it’s the hours of murdered light,
or the desperation of the trees,
or my own heaving need,
but it reminds me of forgiveness.
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