Touched by air, all the crisper
leaves of fall are a whisper
in the trees, slowly numbing
their blood: winter is coming.
Thick July sweats its squalor;
children laugh and grow taller
and too near to the mirror
we hold: winter is nearer.
Sons are born in the morning;
lilac buds bloom, adorning
the spring dawn. We have nursed
on spring: winter is first.
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