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These days weather
changes overnight.
Smoke filters sunlight;
embers burn all
the more brightly
for the silenced
desire. Yellow
maple sky, old
cracked oak
carpet over grass
that hasn’t even
yet been born.
Dewed frost gilds
homecoming
mornings,
words like
“hunker”
sprouting in
untried accents,
“distrust” burying
its lips in glowing
ash. A hand
can be a hard
thing to hold
in such climes;
fingers all too
easily balled in
anger. Memory
just won’t burn
as quickly as leaf-fall
and faithlessness
doesn’t pass
with the dew.