There is a white mist
where the white use to live.
Yesterday there were piles of
white clouds at our feet.
Now there is nothing
but brown stone
gray asphalt
and blue dreams.
There hangs a mist over our house
where the sun use to sit.
Where the fluffy balls of
powder
thick
wet
heavy
would press on our shoulder
and seep through our shoes.
Now there is just a light trickle
where the white
use to live.
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