Runcible Spoon

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                    My final autumn


I can't even see the date

because no one can.

There will be the ragged edge

of sunflowers, turning

gold to red,

and a sky

blue in knowing

as it always knows.

Grass will shimmer in white,

and the sun will lower its fire.

I pray not to put a wall between us,

one dingy and marked with a cork board

and a list of what fluids to take.

Just let me run if I can run,

dance if I can dance,

and blister with milkweed,

and all ripens and opens.

I will make it good, all,

fluttering leaves,

down, I will make it good.