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Still Life: September

My father recites a poem in the Old German
addressed to Earth-bound breathing angels,
each mined syllable cut clear as veined rock,
a baritone prayer that bleeds the weighted heart
to empty cotton seed set loose above a river.

Full bloomed Oxblood roses twined ’round tables
lightly draped with folds of white muslin trimmed in gold,
scent of star-gazers, spiced lamb, oils, warm Ficelle.
Organza overlayed with ancient scalloped lace, dampened
by rain that falls in silver drops from warped wooden gables –