How strange to watch the curdling of time,
The bud that forms.
Such cold rain and the leaves
That this time hold on.
Emerald and constant and soft,
Your eyes always did hold difference.
One a country. One a day.
Whispered, still, of the promise of spring.
Murmured blurred words now sting and cut
Clean in meaning.
Is it cruel of the leaves?
Image: The Four Seasons, 1780s, Alexandre Briceau
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