October 2020

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October 2020

 

On the ground, brown and dying

Crumpled under our feet

I’m reminded of the old words

“In the Fall things die so

in the Spring they may be

reborn.” Maybe reborn.

Maybe not.

 

A carpet of crimson spreads out

Under the old roots of a tree

I’m reminded of the old words

“In the Fall things die

so that in the Spring they may be

renewed.” Maybe renewed.

Maybe not.

 

But these are not fallen leaves.

This is no autumnal spread.

No natural harvest between

The living and the dead.

 

On the ground, masks and signs

Among leaves that have fallen

I’m reminded of the old words

Old dried out words

“So that they may be

reborn.” Maybe reborn.

Probably not.

 

A flag swept up, lost all color

Indistinguishable from the refuse.

I’m reminded of your words

“Some will die but

It is what

It is.“ Maybe not.

No, it is not.

 

All things come to dust.

And to dust they remain.

Those centuried chains will rust.

But they still were chains.

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