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Sally Bliumis-Dunn – Ⅱ







The cold air has come in


like an invisible tide,


and I am walking in our yard,




under the watery air:




curls and twists of fallen leaves


like ripples in sand,


the air, full and deep –




full, I think, of stillness


from all that is not growing –


leaves, branches, even


the grass has stopped;




the air can hold no more


like an ocean at high tide.




I sense it. And


the deer in the yard


whose eyes seem wider to me,




seems like she senses it too.