is having her way
with the Ashes
again.
Their leaves
not green
not yellow
yes terrestrial,
yes lucent,
this world
and the next;
their nature.
It is always now-
third week,
tenth month,
twenty-something
the grief comes due
wind & time,
pulse
and
pull
every
last
living
thing
to
its
knees.
Radiant body
of crimson-gold
sits and sweeps;
dark bone branches
poke and jut
empty and full
at the very same time.
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