Missing spring, bound in waves
creeping cold fills the inward thought
and the reflex to curl within extends
as resistance thins like the wantful kiss
felt of a bright but distant sun
When ease and comfort is a rumor
spread through hissing winds
still bare branches begin to swell
from habit rather than invitation
I chill in the slightest draft
and dread the morning steps to do
thing not put-off today, and say
spring has a fickle way that hides among
white frosty dunes, with hungered bird prints
and glyphs etched of callous winds
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