A poet is yet again stirred by the seasons

autumn approaches

weaving dead grass into the green

like whiskers

graying on a man’s

lip

The first air tinged chilly

slides off tree trunks

tentatively donning

deeper hues

the year ages

hinting at the winter

youthful spring faded

until born

anew

in the hospital

a baby is born

her father rocks her gently

gazing

out the window

at fall’s approach

his mustache twitches

“April.”

“I will call you

April.”

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