The Last Snowfall

The blue of the night

is shallow here;

the sun’s kiss lingers

like lipstick on a cheek.

Feathers whisper

in the trees

as wings and claws

flex; the eagerness

and anticipation

stored in the hollows

of the forest

threaten to spill

out onto

the patchy brown grass.

The snow melts

before it hits the ground,

floating down on warm currents

and caught,

between blinks,

in the soft street light.

Soon, Summer will dry

the puddles on the road

and ripen the fruit

on the trees.

No one remembers

the last snowfall

until Summer scorches

bare skin.

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