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The dust I dusted earlier
Has come back even heavier!
This weather is unjust
Which turns my work to dust.

My windows cannot keep it out:
Fine dust that flies and swirls about.
This dirty menace grows,
Much uglier than snows.

The snows that come do sometimes bring dismay,
And troubles untold. Which later melt away.
If I could be so bold,
Lord, please bring back the cold!

by Gwennon
written March 23, 2013

This is actually the third iteration of this poem, which has joyfully burst through two previous drafts. Such is the progress and the development (the special creation, if you will) of a new poem.

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