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Autumn ablaze in color; scarlet to lemon.
Cerise crepe-paper feathers, once held by tree fingers,
now dropped to the floor
to lay a carpet of crunch and whisper.

In voluptuous piles they beckon,
like harem pillows in a titian den,
and I want to roll with you there
in a cacophony of crushed copper.

The gold of my hair will spread like a fan
cushioning our apple-sweet kisses
as we add our lovers’ murmurs
to the vermilion voice of Fall.


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