Poem For A Cold January Morning

Sharp edged drifts, sculpted by wind
frame the undulating snow covered hills
undisturbed by man or machine.
Pinkish orange in the morning sun the
valleys are left in blue gray shadow.

Underneath, on this cold January day
the ground slumbers.
Waiting for water and warmth, for
the turning of earth, the chance
to give life, and maybe dreaming.
Does the earth dream?

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