They reach for me, like the long-spooned neck of a ship's prow
Emerging - ghostly - through the mist.
Snaky fingers, though dry, not oily
Slap gently at my face in passing kiss.
Water flushes from the Mountain's bosom,
Athwart a Cedarn Grove, now full of light;
The Streambed & alike, the frigid Earth
Shed the bone-stiff'ning slumber of the Night.
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