the poppy, twirled behind the pane,
opening it’s petals, within a frame
ponders snowfall, ne’er the rain.
how silently, it’s whispers call
and wander, ’til flecks end their fall
and red begins to bow and wane
like vignettes, sacred and profane.
Taps and Ratamacues
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Taps and Ratamacues 
Beautiful poem 😀
Thank you! I’m glad you liked the poem. I appreciate the comment.
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