Bleach Braids
Snow cascading
like white hair
down night's cold shoulder —
frost stitches,
mercury descension,
and mad raven streak —
her woman hair must flow,
the child in the mirror
with pigtails
one more season old —
snow melts or grows old,
a frigid connection,
boughs sometimes —
fall came and went
for blossoms —
and her nature has
fallen for it
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