Dead Winter

Probably the most hated day of winter will come when the green, almost black swords rip through the downy thresh floor. And soon when tumbled thorns rise like crowns of fallen kings, their ashes and dust smeared across muddy roads. When I’ll see the drenched, flattened, shrunken carcasses of pines littering the half-frozen ground.

A dull shmush replacing the crisp break of ice.

And when the wet brown regains his throne.

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