Where is your heart when
snow first falls delicate on
the heels of winter? Can't you feel
its strings cold and tighten?
And when it seems the sins
of summer are forgotten, the winds
begin. Never a bird whose voice
so frightening or wooden flute
pressed the lips of mourners
cause the limbs to tremble like
a tired vein, the soul to stretch
its tiny feather, its snow-covered wing.
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