Vol 9, Num 18 :: 2010.10.08 — 2010.10.21
No more does it wander rash through the woods,
but is beginning to settle. It’s not spring, she’s not stirred
from sleep, no, it’s approaching winter;
she’s wrapping in her weariness
ready to hibernate, but before she dens down
she staggers south towards the stream
where she spills a secret,
where she sheds something of herself,
where swaying in the wind, water washing her,
she stands regal,
naked
for all but that black body of hair
swimming; now only her skin can be seen,
and such a sensitive season it is without a winters robe.
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