The dew decorates the leafless branches
Like a parade of jewels,
Turning stark limbs into images of Christmas
Each drip raising a chill as the wind blow,
The shaken bare and moist bodies
Who still possess the memory of leaves,
Their wet embrace too cold to fully love
And yet, needed, a desperate kiss of pending winter,
The deeper chill we will feel coming soon,
Making us ache for what was once warmth,
Making us desperate for the rubbing and groaning limbs
We once inspired to create fire,
Each wet tip a remembered kiss, dripping off our lips,
A once-sweet taste turned bitter with hope
It may once more turn sweet again,
An acrid draught we must drink
If we are to bring on spring again.
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