Feeling then, the long blade of winter
as it slid through closed windows
insisting on ripping, stealing
my sleeping warmth cocooned
stabbing at my upturned form
awakened by an agitated flock
of crows teasing the power line,
hovering not quite hidden in naked trees
I rose, cursing the day,
yet thankful I woke.
How odd the dichotomy.
Black cackling, replacing
missing leaves taken to flight
almost as if pulsating smoke
spiraling round and back.
passed now that season, yet
leaving behind memories
in fractured glass, still weaving
what once was a blanket
pulled close, deceiving.
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