You are the opposite of who I am

The cold of winter,
and still the pruning peacocks,
dance with no
happiness in pleasure.
Masking their failed
symphonies in redundant poses.
But my dreams, come as magpies.
And sometimes, magpies talk.
How profound the sound.
A solitary spring,
through the packing straw.
And a resting place
for my thoughts.

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