Imprinted in Snow

It was possible, almost
always never very impossible
to find the new in old things-

hoofprints dried in mud,
crusted circles of wings
imprinted in snow, the fluffy

hair of ghosts caught in
branches of the oak, the magic
door leading to the underworld.

And daily oldness brings
a fresh song, a feathered coat
of silver, a burning threshold

over which the dreamer slips
effortlessly, transforming,
shimmering and youthful.

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