Winter’s Breath

And, as my breath froze, I took to admiring the
Calligraphy of frost on window panes,
Scratched spider-webs, ice-like, as I
Passed dim and sleepy rows of quiet houses
With every surface re-conceived as a tableau
For the life of a frost. Though the air was still,
It sang with a cold truth, caught by long-cast sun,
Pertaining to its chill and clear solemnity
And the breath before me paled to its perfection.

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