My sister’s move reminds me of

flowers starting to fade.


I ponder permanence.


Proud bristling thistle

aren’t so bright or so sharp.


My dancing,

drifting meadow of mallow

starts to fall over.


I tie some up. It will

return to the ground.


Ominous smoke drifts

from fires far away.


Such a thief can

steal summer after

such a long wait.



kettle of lies

boils progress

and leaves me just hope.


While my sister picks

a retirement center.










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