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Just.  Now. 

A clear morning by the water 

After a drizzle Monday of scuttering clouds

The ever shifting color of That Lake,

That Sky,

That grove of Trees

That has stood in storms

And drought,

And pelting duck shit.

They are all tipped with flame

As the autumn sun reaches them

On its way to a cloudless sky.

See now, our branches shimmer, not

Snow-tipped, in grieving foresight.

A crime, surely,

To  turn our eyes to some sunless day

On a morning so glorious with Light. 


 

Joanna Ettorre, from Trees of Dawes:  Words and Music, 2017

 


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