the wild garden

all the flowers in the wild garden
have yielded their spirits to autumn’s chill
and become dry brown ghosts, their seeds
falling out of cracked heads and cones

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november morning

when i woke this morning
the ground lay thick with leaves

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every golden leaf

i looked out the bathroom window one morning and caught the neighbour’s cottonwood tree all a-quiver in the blush of the morning sun. every golden leaf shimmered spangle-like as the tree thrilled to the whispering wind; i thought my heart would burst with beauty. the hedge across the field is slow to turn at first.…

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