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The snow drifts to the ground soft as babies breath talcing the bottom of the farmer field. The bows of barren maples brace for the downy white. Heat held in the asphalt melts the first dusting, its ashen countenance blanching, sullen as the temperature plummets cranky in the slush. The snow laces the still air edging the scrub brush like baptismal lace on an infants gown. A cradle cap for the bitter sweet snow white and rose red. Shush, the dawn traffic says mother and child abed Engines purr warmed and primed for morning. Scrapers clear glass lens of light snow the farm awakens.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2012

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Date: 2/11/2012 9:49:00 AM are you doing? hope you are hanging in there......thinkin' of ya!! :)
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Date: 2/11/2012 9:48:00 AM
Ahh...this makes me want to tiptoe through your words. It is such a beautiful poem, ........a simple way of life, that makes one almost envious in spite of the hardships. So brillant...your words 'cranky in the slush' that line!
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Date: 2/11/2012 9:05:00 AM
Debbie, beautifully written! Cold morning here, but we rarely see snow. Thanks for your help with your comment. I updated! Have a great weekend, Avis
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