promptly comes to sweep the fallen
blossoms first one way then the other
in rows along the streets
like those flocks of starlings
swaying in wild pirouettes
before settling down for the night
but doesn’t that belong in fall
and this is still the beginning of things
though it’s really just the same emotion
entering or leaving the roofless room
of summer the same problem
of thinking through the winter
facing the fallen ever anxious
to help us go on
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