Friday, November 11, 2016

Armistice Day Poem

As if one hundred years of age, 
mid-November leaves are clinging 
to the emptiness of branches.

Wind gusts of forty miles per hour is being forecast for today. 
And when that wind goes blowing,
leaves go dancing in its path without direct trajectory.

The world becomes a disarray of multitudinous
non-aerodynamic shapes of forms
with single intent.

Thus it is said
to love the archer
and understand the missing of the mark.

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