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 Dec 2013 Arpita Petersen
kaitlyn
cold stream of air,
clear, raw sky, rare
wisps and little shrouds
or shawls of clouds
fast fleeting.

low sun lancing,
screened less
by intervening
trees' unleaved undress.

I stand in fleece
and boots, out back
a breath, a break
of afternoon, the stir,
to mark the slide away
of bright and shivering day.

— The End —