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Tuesday, September 15, 2015

They'll Ripen and Drop

 




Inside reflection:
Kitchen light vies with the sun;
(An unequal match).












Where will my plant go?
It has grown so tall outside.
Too big for the house.






 

 




Silently jumping
Indiana leaps in shade;
Gleeful shouts follow.











 




What season is this
With its blue sky and warm sun?
Spring? Fall? or Summer?





 






A wayward shack sits
In the shadow of the house--
Its own mystery.







 





It's dry no longer
The ancient empty stream bed.
Has its new mirrors.






 
 






Grove of bloom-less plants,
Their seeds given to the wind;
Bare, without purpose.






 





Nobody eats them,
These hanging green wild apples.
They'll ripen and drop.





 

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