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The Leaves Have Forgotten

Death twist and crackle to the ground. Silent and bloodstopped. No more sweet breeze of
springsummerfall. No more lovers with their whisper promises catching in the green, or even a
child, pink fingers waving goodbye. Those were summer things. Passing ache of youth. Caught
like a photograph.

Now the leaves go dry.
Memory presses out of them,
Float away, like time.


  Francine Witte