of the wish imprinting
the tree, fall
of sweetness flaming
away: here's
maybe the final
ghost of full and ripe
in a lucky punctual
goblet, shining
naked to taste,
humming how now
in the garden the last
stalks yearn, last
briefs of color
claim and jostle
and won't give up.
But the tree so silent,
the picnic table sputtering out.
What strolls in the grove?
Go sit on the battered
chaise the former owner
left still warm.
Go sit and sip.
And listen.
Forget to weep.
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