The glistening rays of a winter sun blessed by morning drops of dew. A single leaf lay flat on a bed of black asphalt. Golden-brown, the life drains from its veins like the last breath of a dying animal. A chorus line: my beloved oaks, arms reaching and bending toward the the sun. They signal a change. A new season. While the air is brisk, the ground soften beneath my feet, and I feel what can’t be told. Red apple scents. Leaves burning. Pipe smoke rising. The rough of my father’s bristled beard against my innocent face and laughter, deep and soulful. There is no joining of time to space. There is nothing to say. Just rest your head on the shoulders of the dying. Be consoled by listening to an icy winter song, and let your heart rejoice. Susan Ward Trestrail, 2016
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Love. Love. Love.
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Thank you! I wrote it at Fabyan’s
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