Silver snow, icy hot
lies in shimmering mounds placed by the wind,
blown and polished like glass
as the sun's reflected heat
warms me as it melts a thin layer,
the water glistening, sweat upon an icy brow...
Amid the glistening, pristine furrows
that take away Winter's scowl,
the storm's aftermath, is like a cool bath
quenching but not drenching, just enough,
after the tempest's fury...
Unseasonably warm today
or that is what the newscaster say
what more reasonable way to spend a Sunday
than a day in the warm winter sun?...
This is the and the last three written on February 6, this past winter... peace
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