As the sun seeks the equator,
last long shadows of summer
and grasses fade for sustenance,
how wide the dull drums
flatten random asymmetry
and absence tricks the heart.
barley nears its providence,
bread and malt and mash,
hulls in the hold of the Balclutha.
toast the toil of a season passing;
pumpkin and dried corn waltz
the lure of the harvest moon.
a black crow flutters its new down;
bitter is the mirror that cannot lie.
illusion throws its coat into the fire;
warms the first few breaths of autumn.
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