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Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Sonnet CLVI

A tree in autumn, shedding yellow leaves
those butterflies that tumble, flying down
like snow of shining gold and tawny brown
a scene of stars as threads still interweave.
While winds do blow, the tree will bend and heave
and leaves will fall like flaxen sparks of light
as shimmering and glorious and bright
as if those leaves were electronic dreams.

A scene as if it came from summer’s days:
the streams of sunshine made of drifting leaves
while on the ground, the leaves that pause, remain,
a pointillistic picture where they lay -
as if Seurat had come within the breeze
and scattered ochre on the grass that day.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!