End of another summer. The Leaves
Dry and thin, then fall, their dark
Curls the anatomy of an autumn.
Like light, the closures come and go:
A line glimpsed under the printed page
Or absence of the voice that asked
What you alone could give, but asked
The one time only. Soon the garden
Will revert to water. Daylight will hide
In its shrubbery, with only the ferns’
Geometry to save it. I shall remember
To guard my steps, before I re-enter
Kick off my boots for fear I print
Lead skeletons on the kitchen floor.
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