Gillian SzeCURRENTAnd you are ever again the wavesweeping through all things. --Rilke (II.3)In a single gust, it seems, the leaves yellowand one evening, I find the maple bare,the last of summer burnished.The trees know no vanity.I walk around a manmade lake and tell my sonthat the birch kept growingjust to meet him.Pay attention, the boughs sigh.It is against trees that I measurethe dawning of
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