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A lime leaf, wind-whipped from its tree,
Switchbacked in air and plucked my wrist,
Its broad-faced green had blanched like cloth
And rust had made its edges twist;
Sick, with no remedy,
It fell like a struck moth.
October’s
like the grey-backed sea,
Brutal
and languid under mist, Extracting life from summer’s growth
And crushing it as winter’s grist:
That lime leaf guilelessly
Has blundered into truth.
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©
October 2014