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I’ll describe early spring,

Because it’s easier,

Than describing fear:

Waking at one a.m.

In a terrible dream.

Where are you,

Why don’t you answer?

It’s forty degrees,

And the wind is rattling

The darkness and the chimes.

Everything is touched:

The willow, aspen, and roses,

Just beginning to break

Into the tiniest buds,

Yet, still bare, still silent,

Still waving their branches

Like I see you waving your arms.

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