Leaves quickly fall
now that November
is nearly done.
From behind a glass door
I watch the dry storm,
blanket the ground,
Useless appendages
liabilities in the wind,
cast-aways await
the hollow scraping
of my wide rake.
Yet in the tree
holdouts
hope for reprieve,
wave and rush
confidently
sure that bright color
can distract, delay death
with brilliant
blush.
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