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The hot water to the house froze,

As did the hairs in my nose.

It must sound ungrateful

To wish to see a summer seagull.

I have a good roof over my head,

And with each day, I’m satisfactorily fed.

But it’s unlike a man to complain

And to magnify his pain.

 ~

I’ve chosen to live where the winter bites,

Where the silence of falling snow excites.

The weather marks the passing seasons

As convent cemeteries mark black-robed nuns.

And spring will surely arrive

For those given enough months of life.

~

S.A. Bort / 3 December 2014

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