Sunday Surmise

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Early autumn blows through her tangled hair.
They button their coats and walk a thin trail.
“Why can’t we get it right?” “And who should care?”
“Poor you. Look at me.” “You’re ashen pale.”

She shivers, shudders. He rises, then falls.
“Why?” Something new in her wild, blue-grey eyes.
“Term time and asthma--you know.” A crow calls
From a low, wet black bough. “Watch the root rise.”

“Are you listening now?” “So what should I hear?”
Her glove stops at a bramble and hovers.
She shakes and drops her head. “Is that a tear?”
“So into yourself.” So much for lovers.

With grey fog rising, he knows she has grown.
Faint rain begins but now the crow has flown.

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