autumn

after February
comes
a woman
with long golden hair

exhaling her red soul
on leaves of manuscript

whose magnificent eyes and
quiet smile adore
walks and books
dappled afternoons

her small bare feet
swift liquid strides
tempering
tending to fires
in the bowels of the earth

but so gently does
she enter our gates of
consciousness she steals
without breaking a thing
that rose
in your careless heart

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