Three things signal the turning of the page:
the crunch of flame-bright leaves; frost in the morning;
the cat sleeping, croissant-bent, in the warm small of a child's back.
Three things are coming:
the sweetness of stone fruits;
the prickling drizzling ice-rains;
leaving home in the swallowing black.
Soon enough, autumn slips into the fold, and we are for the dark.
- Kathy, 19/04/17
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