
A revisit to older work, to warm up for newer work.
Love.Curled in a fever,
Wrapped in a blanket made of stone;
Made to look like art,
Made to look organic.
Nature coils an invitation.
Inherit.
Own.
Autumn has it’s own way
of defining the moment;
In leaves, in grass,
In mornings that could never disgrace,
Never shame.
I hold the memory like a well worn scarf;
Inhale the familiar scents.
I wonder at how I could keep
something so old,
so tattered, around for so long.
I keep the stone the same way,
But the pond is its reminder of family.
I splash,and love holds dear the pebbles.
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