End
The tent of Autumn is wet,
Nights as dark as creosote,
Days that fall like
Mother apples which bruise
With cold sweetness.
The impending conspiracy of
Frost;Laburnums stripped to
Bare frames, each fox pulled
By the neck into the
Hedgerows.Let go, curled leaf,
You are tired and dragged with sleep,
And can not look the snow away.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2014
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