burns with cold smoke like pine.
You who fly by night, read the empty echoes.
Lake's still silver streaks speak in signs.
Grey lords of the long season,
not a single star or a green needle fall
or leaf go gold in autumn
that you have not known.
Each comes full with time.
Each has a place for it alone.
Summer wildflowers bloom and grow
on endless afternoons,
every petal precise.
When the winter of the Wolf Moon blows
they slumber under ice.
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