Drying Leaves

Browning and holding themselves

with a fear, previously unseen.

Their shivers are more easy now;

in a childish, miserly wind.

Leaning their twisted faces over

a black earth: taunting, matte and cracking.

Any hint of gaiety has gone to

the heavens as steam that now

threatens to growl and scream

into a fitting, purple haze.

Nostalgia is of life and mobility

unrestricted; a blooming, wet wonder.

Fearful of firm fingers now:

they only exacerbate failure;

they pop and crumble and race

to the oily, counterfeit tarmac.

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