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While I watch
from the warm side of the window
winter deepens outside my door

It’s true
the clock’s hands turn
the calendar sheds its leaves

but there’s something inside me
that won’t let go
of autumn.

The harvest is in
the vines have gone from dust
to dust

Jars of preserves
are lined neatly on the shelf
and I know

though seasons
cycle ever on
autumn is a state of mind

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