Ode to a Kind of Winter

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Sarah Carleton

Ode to a Kind of Winter

 

      Nothing I love more than a wet December—
      windows open, cardinals poking berries,
      air like people: tepid and mostly water.
      Breathing is dreaming.

      Certain days, an eerily quiet soundscape
      settles over Florida’s palms and . . .
      . . . . . . .
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