This lull is a long song of sighing, 
a raising of expectant eyes
to skies heavy with rain.

You are a strange one ...
the wager that turns on a penny,
the pain within the skin,
the scurving of surface ice
not fallen in, not yet pinned
by cold,
the spinning coin glinting
and difficult to catch ...
heads or tails
will I win?

Perhaps loss
maybe gain ...
who knows what gold
is in the air,
winnings not yet 
come down to land
in my palm ...

and we all know
the weather 
may be dire or fair.

This lull is a stake thrown -
coin still up there
dice rolling
cards face-down.
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