Noonday Poem, January 9, 2015

Frost makes clean;

near and far.


The lawns, the open lots

the view of the town below

are, like in the song,

white and even.


In the woods, the pathways

are firm and easy to grip.

Even the black mud is crystallized

into villages of tiny towers

with sharp edges and points.

The sunlight

though low-angled

is brilliant on the morning gloss

and for these few moments

this world is a dream;

a picture of its ideal self.

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