My backyard in November
Even the dry brown oak leaves
Are afire in the late evening sun
The bushes are yellow
But mostly red, red
The lawn is a patchwork of grasses
Weeds and errant perennials
The Virgin Mary, out from behind the irises
And summer milkweed
Commands the yard again
Winter will come, and the fireplace
I will wait impatiently
For snow drops and crocus
And the explosion of flowers
We call spring
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