This entry is part 11 of 18 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2013

we’ll be before too long,
and thus each surface doubles:
the sere laid over with

supple gold, the stippled
giving way to austere cold—
so listen harder for the call

of all you thought was lost or perished,
familiars finding their way back through
stations in the half-lit wood.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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