grows like dawn across the pond
with fractal patterns
spinning in a liquid fingerprint.
A breath would break it
but still it stretches with fragile edges
tightening its hold on the smooth surface.
A misty layer taking a pearl sheen
it is the quietest spreading thing.
What would not bear a fingertip
will grow swirling bones of strength.
Winter nurtures the newborn
and nothing thickens into new stone.
From a tendril of affection
comes a love you can stand on.
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