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Dec 2018
What strange messages
has autumn handed us!    

They hold their branch,
by their withering root.  

Once flushed in greens,
they fall, die, Indian gold.

Blanketing our solid grounds,
quilting our grey ways.
A poem about my favorite season.
My poetry/short story website: www.gothicsurrealism.com
Daniel Long
Written by
Daniel Long  31/M/Massachusetts
(31/M/Massachusetts)   
261
     Debbie Brindley and PoetryJournal
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