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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

winter poem

The wind hisses in the leaves and reeds,
And stillborn buds cling to bare branches.
All is distant, while distance
Itself deludes- the farther shore,
Goldened by the remaining rays
Of afternoon, is a painter's landscape.
Even motion- hopping bird, small dog
Bustling before its owner, stark V
Of winging geese- seems stagecraft,
A trick of the waning light.