Gilded in Dying Marigold

I already miss summer heat so hot I cannot sit in direct sun for more than a few minutes at at time. There is joy in October but it is gilded in dying marigold –a blaze on its way to frozen nothingness.

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Dozing in grass left too long, my eye travels the river of blue sky between crown-shy trees. I wish we were holding hands.

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The only time I see the death of pine trees is along northern highways where exhaust mixes with spray from winter salt trucks. As women, there is no impunity for the desire born in us. You who has been been gratified moves north and south, traveling roads towards other places.

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Bats at dusk. I am far from the lover's breadth now. Yet, autumn apples.

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I'll never not be writing you. Fretting geese moving on. Long rains of regret.

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Milkweed pods open entirely. Hope of next year, next time, is not the same as a promise. I sleep next to an open window to understand what is happening.

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Sparrows pick at confettied seed. I am consumed and taken far from home. I thought you were my October but possession is another thing entirely.