The Cusp of Spring's Last Frost

The Cusp of Spring's Last Frost - a poem

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Ice etches itself over stained-glass.

A delicate violence,

clouded-veins spreading

like fractures in bone.

It clings with a fierce clarity—

each blade of grass becoming

sparkling crystals,

each leaf a brittle relic

suspended in silver-mist.

In the sun’s first light

of springs ever-dying call,

its beauty surrenders—

a cold flame flickering out.