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Wind Chill

Written by: Linda Pastan | Biography
 The door of winter
is frozen shut, 

and like the bodies
of long extinct animals, cars 

lie abandoned wherever
the cold road has taken them.
How ceremonious snow is, with what quiet severity it turns even death to a formal arrangement.
Alone at my window, I listen to the wind, to the small leaves clicking in their coffins of ice.



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