Winter, bows out,
kisses the feet of spring,
shrugs his shoulders,
and walks away,
with men heavy,
in his belly,
satisfied, for now,
those he leaves behind,
notice, but don't,
they become glitter on the
eyelashes of her
blossoming cheeks,
waiting for the bosom,
of her always mother to arrive,
she, though,
in the drawing room,
oil and pastel,
satin and silk,
watches him go,
worry in her eyes,
following his shadow thin,
she will see him,
again,
soon,
always.
the door shuts.
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