Toast and honey for breakfast.
I scrape crystals from my window
to reveal the day.
Frost grips the land.
Along the valley the train cries,
baffled by the stark trees
of the rimed wood,
wolved with shadows.
My toast is crisp and brown,
dimples pooled with butter,
my beaker of tea steams
as the humming perfumes
of a locked summer
spin from my spoon.
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