winter

Under a blanket of dead leaves
tender like tears a fresh flower grows
perfect, without thought,
waiting for us.
We walk through these woods like the blind,
our pains bunched under us.
We shiver in the wistful light
cuddled high in the trees.
We happen upon the blossom at sunset.
We are stunned by its silence.
We are wounded by its perfection.
We feel our humanity keenly,
like a north wind.

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