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Eulogy of the Harvest




And now, October? The pumpkin swells
and seeks a face. Slow and steady ends
the race. The leaves show color, then let go.

We put masks on over our masks and march
toward the day we give the dead
(ha! the dead have almost all the days).

This moment, like all moments, is transitional.
Most experience is lost. At the last, the least.

When winter gets cold enough,
the world will burn with no thought of spring.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.