Flakes

Sometimes I talk to myself and hear the raindrops

crash onto the wavering steps; my feet cannot cross the bay

of last can-opened beginnings, prised open with eyes

like Siberian huskies, pulling the sleigh of daffodils to the

forefront of frost. As soon as my hands touch the cold

gems, the flakes disappear, and like that – life is there, for a moment.

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