[23 August 2019]
The
breaking open,
soft, still,
and steady,
the outwarding of the innermost indoors golden-dappled
hues of amber and ochre and scarlet and crimson. Touching,
gently, the space between your fingers, growing a
lifetime of mystery written on the once-bud where the
leaf still clings tremulously to the branch. We, too,
have our season, spouted here and gathered there,
blown into roads and byroads and inroads, clambered
up and battened down and weathered out, first
bastion against the frost. Yet still we hold full sway our course.
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