per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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poem for the season

Last sunset gave a green brush of rain-
Storm-sent, tropic-born- with a wash
Of warm wind. Now, like a cool inbreath
The breeze shifts, bearing along with it
A morning's river-dazzle. Whispers, too:
Soft and wordless, rumoring in images-
Painting the turned leaf blaze on the hills,
The high north chill dropping down the sky-
All in cloud-sketches on a no-longer summer sky.
- 9/27/2005


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