Fall:
the black oaks fling
their bronze fruit
into all the pockets of the earth
pock pock
they knock against the thresholds
the roof the sidewalk
fill the eaves
the bottom line
of the old gold song
of the almost finished year
what is spring all that tender
green stuff
compared to this
falling of tiny oak trees
out of the oak trees
then the clouds
gathering thick along the west
then advancing
then closing over
breaking open
the silence
then the rain
dashing its silver seeds
against the house
Mary Oliver.
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