By Thomas Page

Snowbanks beleaguer the dusty highways

Days after heavy clouds poured frozen rain

Lain in the form of snowflakes so slowly,

Holy like the prayers, falling straight down on

Yon hibernating trees in my backyard—

Graveyard of a sleeping nature there

Where it will resurrect like a phoenix;

Scenics of the Dutch Masters centuries,

Treasuries, and histories winters gone

Dawn of the new year covered in snow—tanks.

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