The Remnants of a Storm

The remnants of

an exiting storm.

The final pull of wind,

the puckered drifts of

very fine snow,

as climbing plumes,

winter’s filigree,

ascend,

disappearing,

and becoming

forms

we can not see,

but can certainly

feel.

The kiss of it,

sweet and cold,

lips,

ready,

and

alive.

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