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she held winter
in her apron –
snowflakes on a string
a touch of something
magic
she restored
seeds of revolution
weary wicked vine –
she bit her lips
whene’er she willed
for more
of distances
too fragile –
love where weeds permit
roses pressed to walls
yesterday
she walked beyond
what made her longing easy –
wanting for another
to wonder why
she came

. . .