they touch the air with fingertips
as lifting a glass lens
gingerly for fear of slipping,
precipitating the quiet end
the snow is gone; now icicles
grace the outstretched limbs
they wear their royal livery
and shimmer slowly in the wind
a car passes by, wondering
at all the winter excess
the frozen trees are still.
Pilate eyes the savior in a wintry dress.
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