The crimson birds flit
From stem to branch
In the bright, brittle morning.
Across the gentle slope behind
A fine sheet of frost
Glows faint like a ghost
Disappearing into mist
In the rays of the silent sun.
.
Who can pass into such evanescent perfection
And touch the flight of the cold, red birds
And skate above the crystal carpet
Even as it vanishes, like a breath?
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