remember. a poem.

did you
hesitate
before you did
what you did
helpless like you once were
too, fresh and pure and
alive
well things turn awful
red when they’re left growing
wide open in
the hot sun scorching the pretty
little petals until
the first frost
and then after
winter cold and white
the hot crimson petals
push through and
remember

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What would old McGregor say: thoughts in an autumn garden

What would old McGregor say if he wasn’t too busy chasing rabbits and stopped long enough to notice the creeping ebb of color

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If he quit worrying long enough about the straight rows

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And saw that the fruit wasn’t ripe within the fences but rather

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Well beyond them

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What would old McGregor say

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If he noticed the sun angling lower along the horizon igniting truth in long forgotten places

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And secrets waiting to be told

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A clean start.

The first day of autumn. The first day of change, transformation, thanksgiving. Ready-or-not, the cool frost settles on the browning corn, the golden soybeans, the rooftops of silos waiting to be filled.

I don’t think fall signals the end of a season near as much as the beginning, the shorn fields laid bare, the broken stalks pointing heavenward, the earth turned over once more to wait, steadfast, for spring.

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