per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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This also cannot stay

The streets are paved with blossom swirls- frost-bright
Within their spiraling, their dance, breeze-blown;
Sun-tinged at core, like popcorn lying white
In gutter drifts- a warmer snow's unknown.
For ash they are, flaked from the first bright flare
Of Spring (did that fuel these summer-furnace
Mid-April days?), in firework-frantic pace.
As trees slide into their more steady burn-
Green smolder pale to dark, the Summer long-
The flower fragments echo the return
That comes when Autumn ends her harvest song.
So petal pairs with crystal, frost with fire;
An endless alchemy, a phoenix-pyre!

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