Soon, each broad leaf will bronze and
fall like a country song.
Soon, breath-thieving winds will sculpt
tall drifts of snow, exposing Summer’s
time-frayed hand-me-downs.
Outside, amid the browning, a vague
poetry of silver curses consumes
entire flocks of birds, who flutter idly
to the ground, while we wait for this,
too, to wither and blow away.
Perhaps we should look up more often.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
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