White Snow Black

snow whiteFat flakes fondle
still Air

Capturing pockets
that spiral
d
     o
          w
                 n
to moist pavement.

It’s pretty for the time

But I like the dirt

the grit, the grime

The need to measure out our time
to an imperfectly perfect rhyme

With our all-consuming prance
Of life and love and chance

I guess this is what they call Romance.

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