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“In autumn, the earth becomes a manuscript, each leaf a page turned by the wind.” - Poet
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dawn blinks— saffron spilling over ridge-lines marigold plaiting the first veins of leaves air tastes of dew and oak crisp on the tongue frost caresses lips sun touches frozen moss clouds vellum blushed with ochre tremble above waking trees the woods inhale—maple beech ash folios loosening in gentle flight spiraling sentences into currents hills bend beneath layered chapters meadows kissed in honeyed amber a squirrel startles scurries across twigs lakes mirror sky stone flakes slipping tiny splashes like punctuation ripples spiraling like footnotes smoke drifts from chimneys cinnamon etching air into loose paragraphs geese scribe the horizon— black strokes through viscous light wings scripting distance a sentence that begins and begins merry winds— custodians page-turners flutter across sky hill lake clouds fray to parchment hills darken to clove lakes gloss with frost i lift one leaf— its veins a compressed library of marigold sienna auburn i release it— wind carries it tumbling a thought in passing flight afternoon beckons golden light braiding branches shadows stretch across slopes lakes trembling with leaf-fall everything turns pages reordering the archive with invisible fingers evening gathers— sunset flourishing amber spines of light warmth diffused into autumn’s margins fields fold into winding hills exhaling the days warmth the blood moon ascends— a pale index at book’s edge calling night into order illuminating every scattered page the library sleeps beneath it perfumed with wet leaves pine cinnamon smoke rustling faintly in dreams nothing is lost— every tint every flicker archived in endless margins circling spiraling alive an autumn day leafing through season’s palette
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