Lines On a Dylan Thomas Winter
The heavy, white powdered legs
of snow-sticky trees arches
the tunnel of street down the
winding lane of Sunday morning
go-to-meeting church time full
of winter and children and rubber
shells of withered winter apples
used for snowmen's eyes like
asthmatic Shriners dirt-coated in
too-warm winter sun melting,
rolling, packing days of second
childhood smashed like crystal
snowballs in the future
of those green apple eyes.
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