there is a reason
why laundries are not to be hung
in the Marches of a river town
where plums turn sweetly yellow
in two whole fortnights of drizzles
from a sky saturated with newly melt snow
Lives are made leaden
if not for the veil of baby green moss
that has quite shyly claimed a corner of the doorstep
my heart will have sunk long before spring comes
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