Cotton Jeans
The February morn' hangs the soft light
puffs of cloud as if to decorate a milled land,
the snow-shine as bright as the sun.
Yesterday there was a trace of the wake
of a skywriter, the color of aged lace
against the lightest blue,
blending with the faded olive
pines, theirs with an orange frost.
And the Igiri tree's captive snow
are the cotton blooms of farmlands.
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