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No part of this poetry should be reproduced in any form without written consent from the author, Joe DiMino, who retains all rights: contact


"To Say, The Dead..." by Joe DiMino

To say “The Dead of Winter”
A mere topside observation—
The seed beneath the cover
Breathes…and having light
Of its own imagined,
And closeness for warm cuddle,
Perhaps on some level
It reads; a well-worn novel
Of spring growth (a polychrome-romp);
Or if the light turned out
With darker vision a scenery
One of woes—The Midnight Horror
Of Drought—a dusty volume
Off Mother’s shelf
Of mean blows—

Perhaps, someday, Nature that is,
Will be more candid
With all that is in her
Trusting care…
And broadly impart knowledge
Of a greater intimacy:
Add to her library
Less elements and seasons—
Form to unconscious reasons—
An apparent outward evolution
From basic souls

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