Poetry | Snowfield

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It is always winter despite the passing seasons. Life remains suppressed beneath a frozen ground. The icy white of the sky, the absence of the birds, the leafless grass: is this the taste of empty solitude? It is time, once again, to cross the void of meaninglessness to existence.

A woman drinks tea,

reads leaves, shakes head, smiles and says,

“Never mind the snow.”

-db