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Snow Day
by David Radavich

Wind cold as a rake.

Sun scolding like an aunt.

Life seems
somehow strange,

protected
inside

as if leaves
out there will drop–

dying friends—

and pain
won’t gather in its tines.

Smooth white
tablecloth with crests.

Only mind
suffers imagined

lovers
and the loss

of all fruit-bearing
for the year.


 


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