Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
November Snow
Last yellow rose
against white picket fence,
fall of yellow leaves
across white snow
in the garage's shadow.
The white, the gold--
three seasons meet
a moment, only.
Worried for our shoes, we forget
to worship.
Beautiful. How did I miss this poem the first time?
ReplyDeleteThanks! Such an unusual sight--the rose and the leaves and the snow.
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