afternoon poem, november 30, 2015




The rain-darkened streets

the sky a vague mist

spindly oak branches

black wet

even the wind is non-commital

Weak gusts, this way, now that.


And yet the leaves on the crab apple

are orange and red

defying the grey afternoon

as if they had stored sunshine and

the blood that rushes to the cheeks

in the days of youth.


copyright 2015

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