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Perhaps I'm into wondering,
of sequins
in a day,
the ways of light refraction
and poinsettias by
the bay.
The way the wind in chancing,
every scent and
every chime,
can find the will to bluster
through a solitary
pine.
Fumbling through nylon
and clean-as-prism snow,
I find the words, in secret
and something I should know.
As snowflakes pool in binding
and cover every square,
I left a white remainder;
a sign I'll still be there.