A delicate crystal hoarfrost,
the window pane a framed vignette.
I stare out the oval center,
waiting to see your silhouette.

Cold winds scatter snow confetti,
as in a late winter parade.
Darkness encroaches on the scene.
My hopes to see you again, fade.

Sudden crack of too green kindling,
embers expelled from the fireplace.
I kneel down to sweep up ashes,
rise, expecting to see your face.

Once more I peer through the window,
as the fire backlights my visage.
Though none understand why I wait,
I consider it a privilege.

M. Zane McClellan

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