Around our March balcony tonight
Fog closes its slight hand — illusive blue —
As though the small boats storeys below us
Have hauled even the river out of view.
A warm damp melts into the shawl we share,
While buds naive enough to be induced
Alter their lives with opening. Somewhere
Great buttons of ice from the river’s winter
Cloak, which loosened and were lost, appear
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