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Feederbrook Farm
                               Summer Storm

The crooked dawn raises her head
Twisting the shadows;
        Long and envious.
The first glaze of light approaches a face meshed with winter’s white lips.
Idle dither have bore him here in a glacial tomb
And the void of his eyes peeled clear by ice and wind.
While searching for the break in the sheen orb of dawn.
Yet the sun does not enter the sky when its duration comes to feen upon the sap of life.
Rather a green shroud sowing an era back onto the earth,
A face interrupted his frozen gesture.
Conversing with his elements... SHE MOVES
Warm lips to dry ice,
        An unrehearsed logic, Spring.
Though it fell heavily upon his shoulders as the ice melted into flesh and flesh to hue.
Long did he wait for dawn to comb back its hair and, evoke the shadows from the land.
With his veins full of life and his lungs with game, he turned to endow his thanks upon her warm cheek, but she moved westward.
Permitting the distant hills to speak her name and no more
And more no more no more no more….