In a message dated 11/2/03 9:22:32 AM, [log in to unmask] writes:
<< Pyre
Flambeaus in the orchard cannot disguise [Beautiful opening line]
the way fruit falls in the grass
nor the orchard's demise. [Can you think of another word for orcharch?]
Two swings face the lake, moving
in the wind, empty now as slats
where our backs leaned.
Dusty grapes that swag [I like the word swag; do you need droop?]
and droop upon the vine,
apples that mellow upon the ground,
the fulfillment of roses and of wine
cannot hide places where we dreamed,
cannot hide autumn's funeral pyre. [I like this image]
Winesaps, grapes, falling leaves,
hands that cannot meet and yet
in the ashes there is stirring
a bit of green, a leaf. [Maybe don't need a leaf?]
Sue Scalf >>
Your poem evokes the season well.
kol tuv, Ryfkah
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