Silvius Bonus, Piecemeal Abscission

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Air crisply pale, white barbotine on glazed green earthenware. Smashed edges of cloud-laden weald. My breath held, then my breath exhaled. Hands cupped about my mouth for warmth. The raw, weak pink of sunrise. Chilblains raised afresh each night. And yet, how bare the deer-tracks beckon back to glades uncut by sickles. The odd globe of mistletoe in trees. Folds grazed by deep shadow on middle-distance hills. So near. I love, however mere, this pause before the onrush of the gorse with thorny blossom breaks the hush of ice. Some latter age’s frost has crazed my windowpanes. The vista here looks out on beauty tears might blur. I stand amazed that now, as always, I, at home in dry-eyed awe, may see each branch and leaf this time perfected by a crystal rime and fear no blighting cold so much as thaw.