Looking out the window
as the last snow melts
and the newly born winds
come to erase forever
the dark nights of the soul.
I turn away,
back to you
and to the fire
and the aching purity
of these memories...
Those whispered promises?
The white surrender flags,
like the fluttering clouds
scattered by April winds
into oblivion,
into new seasons,
and the end
of seasons, of pledges,
of desires. I turn back,
looking out the window.
R. R. Shea
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