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The Fiddler
The snow falls like notes from a violin, surrounds the rooftops of
houses like maudlin music created by an omnipotent fiddler whose
gloved hands with fingertips cut away weaves an ethereal magic;
the easy largo of chimney smoke.
Mosaic minstrel, winter is night and death, a papable silence. The
world is sleeping in a snow blanketed siesta lulled by the heavy,
slow, low, notes from strings: a season's song of hibernation.
Yours is not to coax men out of houses nor stand alone upon a world
again turning green. In this dormant repose, there is time to dream.
Concealed from each other in separate cloisters from winter, humanity
mends, for commonly we are all touched by the same weather.
We are all witness to your quiet music, made visible.
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