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After the snow moves north
the prairie crocus,
native anemone,
ears of the earth
listens
for the rustle of summer.

Gently she sways
to moments of truth.
In her petals
the purple-blue mist
of far distant mountains;
a small golden sun
close to her heart.

Eternity
folds close around her,
warms her
from the cold winds
of spring.

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