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April

The day falls dour and dreary.
Rain,
effacing winter’s palimpsest,
prevails upon the weary,
well depriving us of any rest.

The chill air, still and eerie,
looms;
the startled trees lift up their arms;
while lonesome, high, and leery,
one far falcon keens the world’s alarms.

The circling clouds enfold us,
and the whispering rain descends:
but no hour can ever hold us,
and every winter ends.

–25 April, 2020

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