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Promises
Spring is reluctant. She keeps
making promises, then rescinding
them. Snow. More snow. Snow
again. And you, so far . . .
What would I want from you
if you came to me now?
To lie together, comforted
by feathers. To speak quietly
into the long silence. if you
came to me now, I would lay out
the silk bedcover, the mirrored
cloth, the silver bowl. Now, snow.
--
~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com | =^..^=