The moon hovers —
Almost-fat,
Ghost-thin —
In the sapphire sky.
The solstice sun —
Scarlet-fury,
Winter-weak —
Slips through skeletal trees.
My breath curls —
Word-smoke,
Lung-hope —
With the forest mist.
The Earth dreams —
Frost-blanketed,
Ice-cosy —
And I listen, still.
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