and ash leaves, still green, fall straight down, like parachutes above the battlefield that make quick vertical drops of ammunition. They lay like emeralds on a thin dust of early snow, that coats the deck white, drapes the open umbrella, blankets the garden chairs. We think we know when things are supposed to happen, bemoan the unseasonable frost, presume spring is late, proclaim the baby came too early. The ash leaves line the patio lounge chairs like bodies of young … [Read more...]
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