My village lies there in all its stony composure under the first thunderstorm of fall. It meant cold weather was coming, creeping in like a procession of ghosts under the rumbling sky.
After rain dries,
the shadows of leaves
star the white cement
Gray rain seeps through the fall
of played-out clouds, loops among hills,
ragged mountains; flexes and thins cut, contoured fields.
He tears off summer’s dress,
exposes trunk and limb, threatens
worse coming. Yet he brings gifts…
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
You rise. You turn back to the room and repeat what you know:
The earth is not a home. The night is not an empty bridle…
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