Ice (Poem)

Secretive tendrils

tease at the surface

Spring is uncovering her face

Like a woman returning from mourning

Like a morning coming from evening

Gradual

Peaceful

Shyly

 

The soil is cold still

But not still

Alive, below and above

For nature does nothing in halves

Like an artist in triumph

Like a triumphant art

Glorious

Pacifying

Sensual

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