A poet is yet again stirred by the seasons

autumn approaches

weaving dead grass into the green

like whiskers

graying on a man’s


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


in the hospital

a baby is born

her father rocks her gently


out the window

at fall’s approach

his mustache twitches


“I will call you



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