Freezing in the face
Of brilliant yellow sunshine,
This Sunday morning.
Morning is all sounds:
Hum of the furnace, car whoosh--
Well, birds are quiet.
Long shadows on moss--
Summer time is always here
With green on the ground.
Dark the thistle bush,
It's violet color is drained
But its sting remains.
Shadows and dead leaves
Lead to the deserted house,
Touched now with sunshine.
Dead leaves on trees
Standing just off of the road.
(When will they fall off?)
Discarded wood fence
Dumped in the pristine forest.
(Must be by mistake).
Windows through steel bars
Still show the bright field outside.
Light cannot be jailed.
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