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Gleaming stainless steel tankers

rattle the hills,

vibrating the Ramapo fault,

stopping only to pump oil into old

timber-framed houses that reverberate

with the tension of kettle drums.

Arpeggios of spiraling leaves,

supported by updrafts from the Hudson

and the shear of the Palisades, descend

without ever turning oak-red or maple-yellow.

Acorns await their drop

accelerated by the next gust of wind.

Green leaves of marigolds bleed rust,

fading blossoms snub the cold air

turning thin golden faces to the autumn sun.

I finish shelving oiled garden tools,

moving the red handled snow shovel

closer to the battered sand bucket.

My hands feel this day's chill

and, like the marigolds, I face west

the strains of winter's overture

tuning up in the gathering dusk.

  • A poem by JP DiBlasi.


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