Thaw

The furry frost
Is running down
The cars half-dead
Inside the parking lot.

The winter sun
Is blatant, trite,
Determined.
We will hit
The sixties
Well before tonight,

The earth
Entire
Melting
Elegantly,

A breath
Held hostage
Now unclenched,
Finally set free.

God must be a French woman.

- 12/10/25

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