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BEARDS OF DECEMBER

December 29, 2018 GMT

Early in December

On a snow laden ground

We awaken at dawn,

A frost fog

Has painted the landscape

A whiskered white,

Bare trees

The whitest,

Cedars and pine-

Only half as white,

Their dark branches

Like shadowed faces

Bleeding through whiskers

Like old ghosts

In bedroom mirrors,

And every fence post

Is held up

By three or four strands

Of delicate, fuzzy lines

Framing the countryside,

The scattered clumps of grass

Bowing their feathered heads-

Will soon give way

To the rising sun.