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Turning Brown 


The clouds were blue.  The grasses knew they were turning brown.

Birds flew south, and round her mouth, lines that don’t make a sound.


The lining’s grey.  The grass is hay, marching into a bail.

Crops are dust, and she must find some wind for her sail.


Around the yard the water’s hard, turning into a mirror.

The winter snow that they did sow grows nearer and nearer.


They never knew if she were blue for never having a child.

The flower bed had thoughts instead.  And weeds around her grow wild.


Her folded sail, old maid’s tale lie asleep in the drawer

of a bedside table barely able to stand anymore.

© Audsongs 2014

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