Autumn Birthdays

A poem

From Hillwalk Tours

We are sober folk. 
Our starting place is the fall,
when the sun is not half as strong 

as the warmth of our own underarms,
the dead earnest of cold 
what we have always known best,

touching our ears to our shoulders,
our upper lips to our noses—
rebuilding ourselves beneath annihilated trees,

bending our heads as we pass, pressing on.

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