Thoughtlessly, at play
trickling through the blue,
bluish seams, the gray
wintry tears imbue

all the all-of-this
full of gleaming woe,
shape a morose kiss
there upon the snow.

Gazes slowly drift
’round the sprawling white.
Brooding Night’s hands lift
shadows out of light.

And the shadows whirl
reckless, endlessly
in a breathless swirl
from which Gazes flee.

-r. miller

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