from winter’s long righteousness she
wakes, twists her hair once
twice
three
times, a motion not yet a
ritual

her unfurling dance, slow as a
rose, blooming,
twists once
twice
third time a woven charm against
late frost

dry-cold wind
heaves its full belly along,
brushing against still-brown
meadow grass

she plunges scarred-warrior
fingers into the earth, once
twice, three times deep
and deeper down
where truth hides waiting
for a savior

 

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