November

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Pale horizons shroud the long stretch
Of maple gardens in bonnet blue
Seamless meadows run vicariously
like morning tides appear to do
Tender, so tender, the early ripples
of a freshly stone trodden dwelling
Gently buttered and suspended
as nightfall’s eyes begin their swelling

Eyelashes of the bashful wind,
closed and open, to cut a fresh wound
Soil’s fingers come alive to grasp its visitor,
lifting high to meet the moon
A whisk of white whispers a sweet song
to sing the birds to sleep
Ash finds its home in the cold
nuzzles its neck so deep, so deep.





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