Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Through the Garden Gate

Softly,
down the path
leaves thick and
spongy
under your feet.
Scents
of pine
and ivy
and the
yellowredgold
maple.
Stop.
Breathe in the
colors
of the
dying
leaves.
Put your hand
on the old
wooden
gate.
Jiggle
the latch.

Come,
see me,
the coffee
is hot and smells of
morning.

Laugh,
we will.
Love,
we can't not.
Live,
this day,
and
every.

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