the sun coppers clouds
sends pennies sledding
down slopes of new snow
in the single digit chill
and lines of stopped traffic
my thoughts are speeding east
to the powder-filled bowl
and i see us laughing
wet-mittened snow-fort
fights, cold-nose kisses,
leaving snuggled angels
embossed in the white
boots puddling
at the back door
a crackling fire
and steaming mugs of mocha
abandoned on the coffee table
as the sun collects
his pennies in the west
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