Over the shoulder
into dawn - 
a bruised and battered sky. 
Past the fallen
violet honey
or so goes the cry. 

Through cedar boughs;
over ice - 
a freshly minted leave.
A turned corner,
the smokehouse finds reprieve. 

A cliché for all ages,
"what's done is done,"
and again
never comes.
A brow's glistening white beads.  

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