Through cold red yew droplet prism, coached into falling, falling not, falling...
In time by fog-iced morning outline, each bough's croaking weight -
Heavy until sun's weak broach whips a chill breeze,
In time down to grit and earth, deep and dark, mustard leaf-tossed upon long, stringy wet grass, wetter still:
Through each drop a light of night's remains.
Stolid outline arbors huddle,
Mist on thin numbed fingertips, the brittle break.
It is the way of all things.
To come are mornings wetter, colder; chill again - greet the boots, the long coat, the scarf and glove-swiped sweated forehead.
Daily sinking summer's memory heart, steel canopy of molten fading finally overcomes - all is bleak.
The dark.
But as glimmer's fail by the yearly moving, the lights flicker on, off, on - towards the cheer fests around this quarter's corner...
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