the earth inches
it's way towards
winter, the trees
undressing, what
was green has softly
folded into gold
and brown, the
buttered yellows
of autumn. and
the ground gets
heavy with the new
cold, the wet
soil, everything
digging in, burying
towards a hunger
what they'll need
when the winds
blow, the snow
falls, the moon
sharpened white
against the frigid
black night.
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1 comment:
This poem made me breathe deeply, sigh, rub the back of my neck, and once again say to myself that I've got to connect you to a publisher.
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