Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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feasting on ferns

my eyes and heart
are drunk, replete
with shape and color
through the woods,
an honor guard
along our path,
by wetland neighbors,
freshet pools,
and roadside banks

tender fiddle hairs,
silver webbing over
curling celadon,
opening to graceful sweeps,
full green in summer,
waltzing, dipping in
the woody understory

the turn to fall is quiet,
flat headed fronds on stems
in bronze and rust
lead the march to
lush chrome gold,
an ostrich carpet
thrown across dark woods

the smallest feathered shapes
move to a quiet fade,
color ebbing slowly
as leaves and needles drop,
blanketing these remnant
bits of light and warmth

fortified again

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