A line of trees outside the door who'd been there, there for years.
It's late in Winter and they have been impatient…
A freeze would steal the blooms they'd made.
Made, as if it were simply decided and permission wasn't granted.
Made, despite the deep of Winter, where time and cold had taken all life,
all that had grown before.
And, with graceful and stoic refusal,
Or outstretched loving embrace,
White blossoms grace the day.
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