Serene and wistful, like a widowed centenarian,
whisper-gusts wander through the winter wheat
beneath the alabaster mountains of the moon
that gleam behind a fraying cirrus-veil.
The elderly season, in quiescent assent,
dwindles and fades gently away,
knowing that the vibrant débutantes of Spring
are burgeoning behind her and dancing for joy.
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