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A February Poem


From my perch I peer

Rooftops below now white

Puffs of steam or smoke

Dissipate as prayers for Spring

From vents and chimneys

Brick and pipe my reminder

We people sit cloistered


A mother must, at times

Send children forth

For too fresh a breath of air

Into white, bundled

And she with twelve to twenty

Simple minutes alone

Sips brown conconction in quiet


And in the dusk now

Prayers renewed

Wet mittens drying

Warm glows from frames of families

And from my perch I peer

One crisp, red disc

A rooftop bloom, waiting

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