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The night here burns a dark shade of cobalt
As the breeze sifts through the last of leaves;
Autumn fills the canyons and crevices like breath,
Coalescing in frosty clouds of mist and river silt.
The carpet-moss sighs beneath the feet; the groves
Of oak and ash wave empty limbs above the path.
Stillness hangs thick and blue in the night air
That has the taste of a thousand interrupted lives,
Waiting silently for the return of longer days, of warmth,
Of shrinking shadows, and boughs as green as before
This autumn quiet of earth.
© 1998 by J. M. Pressley
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