Winter Hung an Eggy Wobble

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Winter Hung An Eggy Wobble

The sun rose
an eggy wobble,
tall and high above shearling rain.

Blown clouds. Lacy. Faceless.
Hanging on a heavy mood.
It didn’t bring the foggiest trust,

just failed tests of lore,
trials by weather, this wintry
form. Those twelve men of jury –

Anointed. Appointed. Weathermen.
They tapped their twiggy sticks
into bony trees and up bushes,

hoping to pry spring’s peep but
all remained a wobbled quiet.
All remained a winter hung.

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