Snow
If I were to place a frame around joy,
it would be gold gilt, snow piles, fresh, white
and sparkling in the light from the streetlamp.
Snow dogs leaping through the powder, noses buried
into cold blue gloss. A sigh, a snort, another leap,
after fresh rabbit tracks. Now inside beside the fire,
ice melting from boots, forming puddles, they sleep,
content.
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