Blues
Irene V
If you could cut stairs from snowbanks they would look like this. Along their wending path the spindles sparkle into ice and steal from the sun a brilliant white; from the cold a brittle blue. Standing here at the bottom, gazing into the inky pinpoint in the far distance, I wonder, did warm hands distort the rails? Would we find footprints blurred into the stairs? What’s at the top?
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