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Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Foreign Intruders






It's so very late--
Still the pine trees keep waving
And the bright sun blazes.
 

Like faint chirping birds
Children shout outside my house;
I see them running.
It's almost balmy;
Olivia rubs her head.
All's right with the world.

Suddenly it's cold;
Clouds have drawn across the sun.
Just intermission.
Propped against the tree
A slender piece of plywood.
(Coming or going?)
Moss spots on the tree
Glisten in the morning sun.
Must be tree freckles.

 
 

 
 
Red cloth in the woods;
Plastic bottle by the tree:
Foreign intruders.
How many journeys
Have I missed this dark tree stump
Lurking in the woods?

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