Native Tongue
My unattended journal -
no marginal notes or scribbled lines
on handmade pages, designed
for poets to discover romance or
enlightenment; having found neither,
I turn blank pages between calloused
fingers, wondering what to write…
Somewhere a native tongue
vanishes moment by moment,
lips, blazing crimson - branches
overhead, stretch bare, such is this
season -Indian summer; late autumn
Deborah Russell
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