Autumn comes

in quiet discourse

to spirits departing.

What once glowed and soared

slows and holds

in the aggregation

of specks so distant

they can only be imagined

for the things they are.

We below

remain with what we’ve wrought:

lies told,

lucky pennies spent,

peonies trimmed to mud.

In the absence

of honeysuckle and thunderhead,

in the chill that precedes

the whisper of snow

and finality of ice,

the unspoken can be seen now

up high,




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