when too many strangers
gather...
I pattern myself
as a snowstorm
muffled
calm
cold crunchy
under-footing
tender iced
fingertips
a burst of warmth
soon to come, soon to rise
a tepid updraft
on which to ride
beneath where the bow breaks
is an ocean of cradles
she sings
rock-a-bye lullaby
softly at night
in powdered fields
faraway moonlit hills
small gray-purple bumps
he and she that shan't want
shall still wait
there need not be lights
for there to be neon
cc: Chagall 2021
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