Little wisps of summer
linger into winter.
They creep under leaves
preserved by frost.
In the early dawn before
the birds start singing,
like insects who endure
the cold, they’re tossed
outside the darkness of
that space where soil
and silver interface. They gasp for breath,
surprised by the streams
of steam. They toil
to hide again, conceal
their energy. Death
and darkness are their
only hope, but sun
their enemy that draws
them out, that sucks
the colours into the middle
air. The sun
that cannot heat the
atmosphere, but shucks
the crystal leaves and
leaves the shards of ice
to disappear as mist, thus
twisting twice
into a parody of living
breath,
yet bound to hanging
shreds of frost and death.
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