and a lone frog in the grass objects
to the splinters of ice in the air.
You can feel the snow coming;
it will wake me just past midnight,
knapping sherds on the tin.
Those raindrops sound so blasé,
like smokers drumming
their yellow-stained fingers,
they shrug indifferently:
Life is short! they protest,
before breaking open,
showering lazy seeds of light.
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