There is no stillness.
Perhaps later.
Snow hangs in the air.
My child leaps off the steps
into the world.
The trees are bemused,
maybe frightened.
Some of them.
Old cars wait
in the street
with unshakable loyalty.
My child and I thank them.
We become snow for a bit.
Time hides under
the leaves
on the ground.
A brown blanket
at the beginning of snow.
Also high
above the house
where golden threads
circle in a
giant ring.
.
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