Dealing with autumn

somehow it can be done. I have forgotten last April, last May, and summer is an old dream. The frost lurks, out of sight; vandal winds trample the fern bed; last wild gaudy blooms of nasturtium sprawl in the grass; jack-in-the-pulpit becomes a derelict vessel drooping and damaged. Smoke like spice from the tomb hangs in the tainted air and the earth, over-ripe, waits for Winter, clean as a flower.

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