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These January days
are longer, sun higher,
snow melts off the slope
so drip, drip, drip
down the spikes before
cold nights turn them
rigid and they fringe
the roof – fingers pointing
at inefficient heating,
ventilation, ice dams,
loosened shingles.

But this afternoon
they wax poetic –
prisms of light
along the eaves,
talismans that offer
from danger, from evil,
dazzling swords
to be encircled
by the hands
of skilled warriors.

And tonight, against
the inked sky,
silvered by moon gleam,
they reach past
my bedroom window
for the drifts
mounded against
the foundation
and dream they are
aerial roots that
anchor this house.

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