It was February at last;
A low sun began to climb
To the Summer skies.
And the cot-blue heaven
Of a cold Spring day
Brightened the roofs of houses,
And lit the frosty glass
On morning windows.
Shallow pools of crystal feathers
Were joyfully prodded by little feet.
Iced water is not hurt with the breaking;
It melts and transforms itself Into the purest of liquids.
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Anna
for the nice read. randy c. smith