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Snow
The day has quickly
Turned into a Zhivago day,
No sleighs,
No bells,
No Russian fur,
Just a beautiful blanket
Of white snow
Tucked to the edges
Of The Island,
Just the erotic echo
Of lovers’ laughter
As they run for
Hot chocolate,
For hot beds,
Just the image
Of Pasternak
In the falling flakes,
Pausing,
His teeth
On the end
Of his pen,
As he pens
More
magic
Somewhere.
Stephen Nesbitt © .
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