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November drizzle slicks sidewalks; glazes forlorn branches of Missouri Honeysuckle, bereft of red berries; loosens recalcitrant red maple leaves from their moorings; splatters leafy pastiches upon ghostly lawns; tamps down eccentricities of spent foliage; stews browning leaves into mulch; and swirls autumn’s refuse into gutters.

Moisture nudges this denuding to release spring’s buds. We watch in awe!

Moisture seeps through hearts’ barricades, softening tight places, bursting into living color. We give thanks to the Source!


Sugar maple tree torches the mottled sky.

Trickster winds nudge single leaf from its mooring.

Like a gymnast, it sworls, down, down, down.

Then sticks to the glistening pavement,

its stem upright,

its hairy veins deplete of nutrients.

Musk saturates the air.

Crows gawk.

Yet decay rejuvenates the cycle of life.

Spring will whisper again under dove-gray skies.


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