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happy as the petals on the dogwood trees,
crisp as the light
on a late-melting stream.
I could not bear his dark wool days;
he hunched beneath his fur-lined coat
like clouds over pines curved low.
Now, though,
he glides like a needle on the water,
too light to be submerged.
He floats in wearing baby-blue cotton
for the first time since last June,
not yet drenched.