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Poem: Leaf

Fall is the end of porch swings and blackberries,
a riotous end of wind-blown rain

of comfort falling away in red and orange.
The tendril of sorrow that sprouts in me

will not grow.
                           It is not the growing season.


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I haven't written poetry in a while, so hopefully, this little snippet will prime the pump.  Unless the pump has frozen over, which is possible.  It's sooooooo cold here already.  
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