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She prepares as if for 
a lover,
eye closed as
clear water cascades
through the tendrils
of Winter’s remains.
Waiting has become precarious,
teetering on a fence line,
a rollercoaster of winds
bearing southern promises.
She waits each year,
fresh and virginal,
ready to ripen in the warm sun.
In four moons,
age will have marked her for
harvest,
the drying tissue fading
with the daylight.
Such are seasons,
waxing and waning,
reminders of mortality.
Categories: Poetry