springfall

there’s a
wind in the
door –
a slight
shudder
and shiver of
breeze,

pushing the
tattered
screen door
back and
forth and
back
again;

the air
becomes
chilled
and
shrinks
away
from
any
skin house
erected
in the
dusk.

wood creaks
with ennui
and
sylvan limbs
start and
calm
with
each
near-miss
kiss
of the
air,

dancing
together
cautiously,
each a
partner to
the
wind.

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