Friday, August 20, 2010

Summer's Dwindling Power

The ashed green oak leaves are drooping.
The sharpened sumac is smearing red.
The blunted edges of dry lawn grass
scrape my feet.

This morning's water soaked air
smells like the sweat of dead rooms.
And there is a sort of stillness,
 full now but predicting empty, among these trees.
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