Dreams of Winter 

When I greet winter,
I’m in Robert Frost’s poem pausing “between woods and frozen lake.”

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Where I see winter,
it’s a backyard of barren trees, showing off their naked shape,
the fleeting red flash at the feeder,
animal tracks in criss-cross patterns. 

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What I sense
is calm wrapped in stillness,
an excuse to hibernate, tuck in, peer out.

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How do I dream of winter?
It’s gentle, well-behaved snow,
without the bullies wind, sleet, and ice.

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