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Why Gloomy, There Is Snow...

Why gloomy?  There is snow,
White forever, or at least (the least)
Forever in a globe, and it does
Subside into the puddles of the ground;
There is everyone and each
Minding their own business -- I do ask
Who has time for me? 
But for me, for whom
Do I have time?  Time is always
(This is no exaggeration)
Under my fingers and on my mind,
Time is what I should only allow --
If you take it and cut it into rhythms
Each pattern -- but perversions of the pattern also --
Will distract.  Distend myself on these extensions,
Let each exist like colors that I draw,
Lazily the way I trace one line
And then another,
Linking them by intersection into shapes,
Variable in their portion, their color, until no result
Recognizable or edifying, but this word, diverting
Ephemerally lights the regions of the mind.
Trace the regions, man, and tracing let them pass
With the time -- and pass the passers-by.

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