Friday, October 16, 2020

Autumn Is, Herself, a Poem

 

Autumn is, herself, a poem
the chill fog laying over an early pond
the sweet gum dropping gold and red stars
the dried broom flowers reaching
upwards towards the sun
the Virginia creeper,
climbing a worn honeysuckle vine
an October frost dusting the field and flowers like sugar...

I'm not writing a poem
I'm telling you that
Autumn is, herself, a poem
at

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