by Gail Cleare

The green shadow of an ancient oak
Sprawls on the carpet
Of its own shedded leaves.
A fine-loomed Persian,
The faint scent of musk,
Colors like hot sand,
Stained glass symmetry.

Everything is crystal
In this reddening air.
Clarified edges
Cut keen as a lens
In a mosaic of sickles and stars,
Crack and curve shifting
With each shake of the wind.

Clattering pieces
Like a gypsy’s skirt
Swing up swirling
Over the old colonial lawn.
Strung like jewels in a harlequin gust,
They tap on kitchen windows
In the astounded town.

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All photography is by Gail Cleare, unless noted.
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