still the window faces east
the ice forms and drips to please
your peach pie sits half eaten
the tree has long lost it's leaves
you set out for the day
only to reach a rusty door knob
the boots sit saturated
while the sun mocks you in contempt
the house seems strangely empty
a quarter covered in light
the pines are bowing
letting the weight fall from their limbs
by now the ice could have never been
had you not felt the core melt
dripping from your hand the day before
only to be lost in a puddle below
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