A Patch Of Snow
J
James McLain
0
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Under the apple tree she sits,
watching him paint the barn.
From her advantage he is not
but still the sun,
it burns a yellow halo around his head.
Patches here and there are missed
she points to him each out,
as over head,
one clouds it she missed, drifts by.
Left unrevealed, a patch of snow
waits patiently to dry.
And still I checked and being wet,
I nearly slipped and fell.
When reaching out,
to touch that patch of snow.
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