Just tell the truth. Yes, do. Too bad
The truth is so contrarian
And more easily done than said.
Tuesday diamonds frosted the snow.
A little warmth and by Wednesday
The surface was a hard, slick glaze.
Beautiful things seem to do that.
They pass in and out of themselves
As restless as the rest of us.
A full belly and a warm seat,
A little extra idle time,
And something pretty to look at:
What kind of useless truth is that,
When it's so wonderfully bleak
Out there, knowing the snow must change?
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