Cottonwood Snow

Grace sailed in my door,
Smiling past desiring clasping hands.
To know the characters of the clouds,
Ask any decent sailor.
Columbus, cirrus
Only the most kindred, though,
Will know;
There is a secret cloud of the land.
It gives no sign of coming rain –
Or fiercely blowing wind.
It says spring is here.
Spring.
Singing forth nature’s long drawn chords.

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