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Poetry

The color of September shows up in
a certain ripeness of conclusion and dryness
of touch. Now, on the pale skin of recycled paper,
I print out what my fingers already know—
that shrinkage is tightening my hands like leaves,
veins prominent, knuckles white with work.

Summer already fading, out of the question. Light
arrives at an oblique angle. Scatters of rain. Yet here
we are, alive and attentive, as the bright tissues fall
from the sky with their brittle stems, arranging
themselves with an inherent art on the country road
where young children play, unknowing.

 

 


Luci Shaw is writer in residence at Regent College and the author of over forty books of poetry and creative nonfiction. Her newest collection, Angels Everywhere, is forthcoming from Paraclete.

 

 

 

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