Poem: January

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January

The sun is setting
on the taste of crisp cold;
hot, glowing wood,
clove and cardamom,
black.

Cold sun on cold sky;
indigo, pale dust.

Sylvan shapes with tangled boughs
cut through the dusk.
Gnarled palms of a thousand witches,
thumbs unfurled,
linger.

Sparrows chittering,
clotting naked bramble tree
with feather and bone.

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