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We live on borrowed time
Now we must return
to our place of birth
The Earth beckons home
her wayward children
Leaves turn to soil
Gardens turn to seed
Ponds turn solid and impenetrable
November's breath
petrifies as surely as Medusa's gaze
Summer maidens
shed their pale blossoms,
fruit into winter queens
Below the frozen ground,
they dream of innocence
and wait for the cleansing sun.
submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Get Listed-Good Neighbors
