garden in the snow

death and dormancy are nearly twins:
it’s easy to confuse them, one for one –

and ‘permanence’ — it is the sort of word
we stumble over, blindly, as we run

i see her, dormant, ‘neath this winter’s chill;
the icy crystals, ’round her seem to set

to me though, she’s a garden in the snow:
and i suspect that there’s life in her
yet

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