I remember a morning
In late November
When the rising sun
Spread its warmth
Over a field of
Frozen, brittle grass.
I remember how
It made the field steam,
and how the mist
Rose in wispy tendrils
From the hip-high grass.
As the frost melted,
Sliding down stems
And into the dirt,
The field turned
From silver to gold-
Gold like the sun.
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