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those blots of birds
in naked trees
the grass stiff straws
of ochre:
hammer and nails
in hand
mending the fence
for the first snow
you stop turn
look at me
in the window;
your face
your smile tell me this:
after the desert of white
the grass will be green
twinkling in spring.
Joanna Dicker
JOANNA DICKER lives in Buffalo.

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