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  • Writer's pictureLeann Shamash



To be the first to set foot

on fresh snow at the hour of dawn.

The field a white cloth

spread wide on the table of the earth.

The sky and the earth are white satin twins,

separated only by the faint gray whiskers of the oaks.

Endless emerald needles of the pine

move soundlessly above.

They whisper to me

as hushed as winter,

as thin as January.

A moment in time,

the clock pauses.

A mist of the finest snow

burns my cheeks

and reminds me that I walk here on this earth.

Hovering between white and white.

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