I see them
    through the slats at the window,
variations of the ghosts of dreams.
Angel voices? It could be
or maybe the river beneath the oily ice,
           old music for one new song
‘Winter’s farewell in E flat’
before Spring begins its healing…
Frozen February,
   a month of painful beauty,
hearts and roses,
and snowflake patterned anagrams
kissing the misted pane.

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