The silver days of spring; frosted glass shatter and snow contained prisms disperse upon the earth. Heriocially, toddler saplings fend way to awe at the fabled sun, the has-been months of dressed pines in tinsel and crimson is all but memory. Awake sleeping forest lest mock the retired hues; paint instead a monet of color and dry a path so I may enter the new season. ~ S.Q.
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