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by Carol Rucks
The silhouette of black trees
sharpens the whiteness of snow.
I walk off the dream again—
his mouth full of tenderness,
his hair akimbo, hands searching
in the dark with nimble curiosity.
I wonder if anyone ever refused him,
turned him out, just said no?
That was the problem, tree.
That was the problem, snow.
Now I am alone on a black and white
inland road, catching the flight of a single crow,
my collar up, my eyes full of wonder.