The sound of newness lingered.
The stem of an autumn leaf resisted
its position of a summer passed.
Voices within the winds slipped
over branches like silver moonlight defying
the eye of morning.
August roots fail against the appetite
of September and the cloak of October.
Cool winds move in, forcing
doors to close. The signature of fall is
the language of change. We all
accept the absence of harvest.
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