Variations I
The sun spills
through the early
August leaves, and I
remember nothing,
nothing of love or
the fiery tongue
of youth, here, on
this dry ground, is
only tinder,
only the wind
catching the cracked
branch,
and each the tender
ashes scatter once
more
into the shimmering
August sun
Copyright © Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein | Year Posted 2014
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