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The sere wind scours
Every molecule of moisture
From puddles, from skin, from lips.
Feet crack, heels roughen, toe-tips ache,
The sun may shine but fails to warm.
This winter blast is premature;
Our arctic duds are packed away,
Our minds are stuck in tropic zones;
Thermostats demand adjustment.
And death... Well, death is everywhere,
It does not slow for noble acts
Or utter folly. It does not note
The temperature and slacks its grip--
It only ties a tighter noose.