On the ridge above
Skelp Road
bears binge on
blackberries and apples,
even grapes, knocking
down
the Petersens’ arbor
to satisfy the sweet
hunger that consumes
them. Just like us
they know the day
must come when
the heart slows, when
to take one
more step would mean
the end of things
as they should
be. Sleep is a drug;
dreams its
succor. How better to drift
toward another world
but with leaves
falling, their warmth
draping us,
our stomachs full and
fat with summer?
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