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October 8, 2013

Today, I feel like springtime on
a frozen pond. Like warmth upon
a thin veneer of melting ice;
for as it melts, more clearly can
one see the depths below: the ice
turns slow from white to glass, to show
the warmth of spring the frigid dark
beneath—to say, “Look, this is what
you have ahead—you’ll drown and freeze
and be forgotten.” And although
the springtime warmth desires retreat,
to pull away from off the ice,
the sun moves, unaffected, through
the sky and forces springtime’s hand.

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