THE SLIGHTEST TOUCH OF FROST

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The slightest touch of frost this morn
takes ‘way my joy, makes me forlorn.
I cannot see the blues of sky,
nor can they tell a man just why

The world burns wild before a storm,
‘fore winter wails, when golds adorn
the whitest birch and fire the maple,
when man lacks the merest staple

Of love; desires, flames deep below
tamped cool by fate and fear and foe.
The frost this morn is but a tear
that our world sheds for all held dear.

And here I stand, adrift and drear,
in midst of colors, lacking cheer.
Perhaps I’ll pray for spring in pain–
when all I love shall rise with rain–
let go of past, and live again.

Let go of past and live again.

Eric M. Vogt
Copyright 2016

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