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Tufts of brown grass
Pop up from the white snow field;
Light plays on the road.
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Near the broken barn
Bundles of old clothes is waiting;
Early spring cleaning.
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Mirrors in whiteness--
Dark patches of melting snow;
Puddles in the woods.
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Quickly she passed,
Disappearing down the road
Like a morning ghost.
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Car passes slowly;
Doctor looks at me strangely:
"What is he writing?"
A strange pile of rocks
Clustered tightly on the hill
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As if by design.
Jogger round the bend
Youthful with vitality;
Then she disappears.
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Huffing and puffing
Fat oil truck climbs the steep hill
With ancient stored heat.
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