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Falling Leaves

Some poems are pools of sadness

composed by dark tressed women

looking out from windows

that never seem to disclose a future

other than fallen leaves


And look, a final pair is falling

from branches that

might be likened to

the outstretched arms of

almost recognized figures

in the mist


falling, drifting which way and that

on to a heap: the russet, the dun,

the ochre and here and there a wrinkled

yellow as if to say, remember now


or stitch your own sorrows,

your needle sewing leaf to leaf

a counterpane pulled over

your tired eyes

to catch the essence

of some forgotten dream

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© Johnmichael Simon



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