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foggy windows

windows whimpered against
the wind, which was cold from
the lick of winter’s tongue –
and in the morning the ice hung,
a thin paper cloud across the glass face
the sunlight grew and began to lace
and blend into the cloud,
creating a shroud of spicy hues,
marbles of water slipped and jumped –
bumping into the ledge,
puddles of dew on the sill

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  1. escreversonhar

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