Note: “What’s he talking about? The froot loops in his head?!” Nope, it hit me that this poem I wrote last
year well fits our new Idaho milieu, maybe an autumnal eve in Boise National
Forest, so let’s dust it off.
Trees fall
startling all
with a cacophony
unremarked.
Colors shift
so swift
and the toy lies
unloved.
Emotions lie
smiles shy
in a tender
wasteland
unrequited.
Nonetheless …
shift, lift
share, care
the tease of hope
rekindled.
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