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Cold Front
There comes claret coldness
on the land, creeping haze
heralding change.
It is a moody mist—
an earthen kiss,
a lingering at grave’s lip
that lifts us away.
Temperatures fall
in flaxen fields of gray—
a soft hiss of rain
heckles sky.
There is a coldness
in blood, a letting,
a lost begetting of time
and landscape.
The hard freeze is near—
a sheer plunge, a refutation
of words that warm souls,
send us beyond clouds
to light—
cold and bright
as cracked mirrors
of winter lakes
spilling empty
our opal eyes.
Copyright ©
Glen Enloe
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