The midpoint of the coldest month -
when gardens suffocate.
The snowballs plummet fiercely down
on chaos they create.
I notice everyone I know
is digging through the white
And piercing through the blizzard’s shield,
To search for crimson light.
They start to find the glowing red
of roses they have craved.
And as they run, I can’t believe
the way they have behaved.
But as the blizzard’s fury stops,
And melted snow reveals
the pillaged garden’s emptiness,
I know how absence feels.
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