the moon smiles down from
his cold sky
the limbs of the oak
like the fingers of an
ancient witch
The dark night smells
of the earth as
the trees burn with the
colors of autumn
decompose
decay
dirt
crisp
April 2011 | back-issues, poetry | 0 comments
by Brett Devlin
the moon smiles down from
his cold sky
the limbs of the oak
like the fingers of an
ancient witch
The dark night smells
of the earth as
the trees burn with the
colors of autumn
decompose
decay
dirt
crisp
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