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    how the dry wind idles
   among high branches,
   a disembodied sigh left
   hanging in parched leaves.
   August. New Jersey.
   The shadow of a single
   cloud punctuates the hour,
   glides across the broad lawn
   and sweeps down the stifling street.
   Was it only the blaze of noon
   sun in a heat-bleached sky,
   that sent the dusty toad
   to hide beneath these luminous
   caladium, white and green
   low-bending leaves? Or
   might it have been the mower's
   fearful roar? Anyway, there
   she sits on the shaded mulch,
   rooted like a shy bride
   in a dim bower, waiting
   for her tardy groom. I know
   this: Whatever evades
   the whirl of sharp steel
   is fated to fray, wear away,
   diminish, and dissolve. Listen.
   The daily blare of the noon
   siren offers official notice
   of our own slow doom.
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Title Annotation:poetry
Author:Kotzin, Miriam N.
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
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