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The way an old man sleeps on a winter morning,

light in his hair.

When the sun is bracketed by sun-dogs —

gleams of air,

faint curls of companionship, rainbows

lightly leashed.

When it no longer matters whether

trousers are brushed

clean of cat hair, or match his pilled sweater.

When the cat yawns,

and the small dog noses at her ball, then drowses.

When the day joins

tiles of sunlight with a grout of shadow.

When light’s a friend

passing from one window to the next, at this

tessellated end

of another year. The sky one giant crystal

diffracting cold.

The sun out walking its pale dogs on the white paths —

another old

and patient man, passing with a wave beyond

the window sill

where black spruce needles catch splinters of a dream

and hold them still.

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