november morning

when i woke this morning
the ground lay thick with leaves

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thanksgiving on the prairie

gold-bleached grasses bend
in the wind while ice frosts
the slender fingers of every
black-barked tree

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in between the lines

emily, i am tired —
emily, what shall i write?

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early comes the encroaching night

golden hour has warmed
the brown of dry leaves
to bronze

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i have only seen the surface

I have only seen the surface

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