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October's Edge


The edge of October rounds near
in cool days and orange revelations
that float quietly
to the dying earth.

Memory, or wood smoke,
hangs thick in the silvering light,
ever nudging
like persistent cats who want dinner.

Oh, I have known such autumns,
of ruby-gold stretched bold
around desire,
and the music of our rolling on a bed of thirsty leaves.

And too, I have known fall’s full grief
in torn ghosts and silhouettes
of those who could
or would not stay.

Yet Autumn, still I love you,
in your loss, your death, your beauty.
I wander the rustling halls of your night;
forgotten, reminiscent.

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