Tuesday, December 2, 2014

In the dead days of the autumn sun,
the birds sail like horse-back skeletons.
Dreams are dreamt that matter as much
as leaves that fall in the ground's wet clutch.
Upon this autumn ground, turned over,
what will count is how bare we touched
to bared bones of earth, our soul's sower,
even though it bring unnoticed, dusty clover.

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