Morning Walk on the Last Day

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Thirty days hath September. Listen:
leaves remain,  are parchment, crisp
rasp against each other—grains of sand
tides September into autumn. The sound
of conch held to ear an oracle
of white noise a sea
of wind in the tops of trees
graying gaunt. Still dark, not still—
Orion watches waiting an arrow
drawn, a moving target somewhere
in the gloom below.

4 thoughts on “Morning Walk on the Last Day”

  1. What a lovely poem, Fred.
    I have just caught up with baby Henry’s news. It was so surprising and joyous to see the lovely photo of him on his website, with his eyes ope lying on his mother’s chest. I have sure been grieving for your family. Now I have some hope for a miraculous outcome, and I hope you do, too. The doctors were not predicting him to improve like this, so it appears that miracles are happening all along. It also appears that Henry is going to live, and I am confident his life will be full of miracles, no matter what form they take.

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