"This begging for Spring is a brittle flower We are fixed to the chilling earth by a terrible clear purpose While the Sky's judgment remains a perfect, frozen crystal."
- Poet
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God, when the mother's cry arrives—do You hear the shape before the sound? The phonemes of her grief, or merely what they stir? You hear the way December hears a leaf: as afterthought. You frost what begs for spring. We are Your coordinates for cold.
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