15 March 2013

Sense and Marcescence

Among the last of the last
Leaves to leave — like a Guest
passed out on the Couch —
they scratch along the Sidewalk
where there is no Itch.

And the very last of the last
Leaves — those still clinging —
having clung all Winterlong —
they will walk the Plank beneath the Prod,
the budding Rod of Spring.

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