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I came out by a pond —
a perfect round, frozen deep —
and I had to kneel down in the snow,
not to pray, or weep,
but to find the cold,
to touch the crusted snow
with my fingertips,
smooth it like a cheek,
then dig my hands in
and hold them there
until I choked on feeling cold,
because I hadnít felt —
even cold —
for such a long time.
Copyright 2002
Timshel Literature