oh fleet fickle autumn
your bite has left its mark on my handwriting
in orange ashes, from trash cans, I write to you
fighting and trying
baking in batches
living through tragedy oh no
in grandfather’s garden,
the clay you pressed your thumb in is waiting
by the roses and chives
in ashes, I cry
oh fleet fickle autumn
your bite has left its mark on my handwriting
in orange ashes, from trash cans, I write to you
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