This day the grass is a little greener than the last;
Your fingers flush red with feeling,
life moving your body.
Small wonder: I did not see you
the white owl in the snow,
the hare in the forest,
slumbering in my cavern.
Small wonder: the curve
of your smile in the flowers,
the warm air in your step.
The seasons have a way of finding themselves upon you,
unsuspecting, all these solitary years we lie on snow.
Let this one move you, let this one come.
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