Walking out the Army gate late
on a snowy evening in early March
Lumened streetlight halos in the holy snowfall
Grace and quiet against the storm of young blood
Houses quiet and sleepy soundless lawns
A yellow warm door-glass leaks a private laugh
Jump boots squeak and shush in icy rime
To Californian eyes and ears and skin, a myth
Like a fairy world enchanted by endless futures
But then a pang of home and this time it's real
And then flakes mingle with diamond tears.
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