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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