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Odd, how one halloween snowstorm
Still lures me from my chaperoning--
Our playful trick-or-treating--
Toward a once bright springtime spot.
Under an arching, weeping willow tree,
I slumber there: on a moulded mound,
Near a broken swing, reaching the bone-white
Frigid fingers, their pallid pink round
Frayed and splintered strings, just able
To yoke the new, white crescent moon--
Womb-curved-- tipping its silver cradle,
Rocking a new-born weeping widow, soon
Falling in her finest feathered flurries.
It is just a sprinkling-- a gentle dusting--
Etching her epitaph on faceless slabs.
She does this for me-- the lost and undead--
That even the blackest marble stone
Weds the lightest air-borne light;
That festered feet fly from dead men's legs,
Treading softer, star-bound heights.
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