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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 wind we both capture

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 thrust

upward toward the cry of passing crows

will pierce your astonished heart.


And I, behind the glass? How does it

feel to be older than a tree I ask  

my pierced astonished heart.

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