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October, 2017

It’s autumn. Rain clouds vanish.

She peers at me through window glass.

From my side, I watch her leaf bouquet

detach, flutter, drift in disarray

toward drying fecund earth.

Through the window we both decode

signals of distress. But I’m the older

wiser woman so I say

Wait, my dear. One January noon

a flower will appear, a bolt of sun,

bright yellow, perfect, perfumed

like your bed. New leaves up-thrust

toward the cry of passing birds

will thrill your stretching arms.

And I, behind the glass? She asks

my empty hands, my perished heart

How does it feel to be older than a tree?

Astonishing, sad, proud.

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