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by Mary Lambert
The trees have spoken:

It's time to feel rust and crimson
and to let the notes of lager
float on dry air.

This space between breaths
mystifies moths from their
places of rest and pulls them
inward with fiery pursuit.

The bungler stalks amongst
black knells for sustenance and
awaits each dawn to melt his
crusted countenance.

How strange!

Blackened hooves clutch hoary ground,
silvered with strain. One plain, gray
feather lies close to a fallen nest of

Illusion hovers at the horizon,
masking new snow behind an
orange, smiling sunset. A
raven sits at the top of an oak,
lost in contemplation.

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Copyright © 1996 by Mary Lambert. All rights reserved.