Coccooned in wrinkled winter's body,
Let these russets go from the gnarled mind, Reluctantly, From the black twigs of thought,
Bare now, And sunless in the frosted brain,
Laughter has died,
Gone from the heart's rivers,
The shores of flesh,
And damp leaves and words lie clasped together,
Our seasons mingling,
As they meet.
With your glance and green voice of summer,
Your shot-silken, sunlight-shafted tones,
Turn in your hand,
The white, bound and ribbed leaves,
Strangely like dappled water,
Smiles, Incongruous as red Christmas Roses,
So vulnerable you are,
Encased in your fragile shell,
Poised between fables,
And your years.
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