The morning after The Big Snow
The entire Valley of Good Grass
Is locked in ice,
I give my usual greeting
To Antares
Spinning in the heart of Scorpio
As treacherously
I navigate my way to the street
For the morning paper
Slipping & sliding like a drunken sailor
But mine eyes get rewarded!
By the frizz glitter of town-lights
Frosting the empty mailbox
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