how fully do the empty trees
embrace the air
holding their tristeza like an only child.
the path seems wrought in golden whiles
until the gusts remove with no one left to ask
the shorn leaves lying there.
so much lies between the lines
not wrought in gold, but questioning
the questioners who have never grown tired
of pegging you.
and this is winter,
the worst of it.
Jesus is not a franchise I cry to the glistening
and kneel in my novembers
up to my neck in vanishing
mary angela douglas 27 august 2013
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