Increments have quickly flown
to shuttle shadows past the point
that dawn could ever re-anoint
as chilling rime bites the bone.
Throughout the veins of stoic stone
a slowness creeps that won’t desist
when craggy crevices are kissed
by crystal climes it can’t postpone.
Those fading wisps of spring cologne
remind us not to squander tears
on seasons lost as solstice nears
when chilling rime numbs the bone.
Are You Reading Me?
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