First to Fall

 

The roses in the back against the fence

have a voice I can’t depose.

They are speaking many languages now.

The tongues roll down their red coat carpet

for me, and the words become mine,

shared, drawn faces along the side

lines path crazed freedom braces

My little big guitar creaks its melody, and

summer freezes.  What do we do

with the fall?   Tell it it’s inevitable?

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