I hike the ridge on the last warm, tousled day, 

speckled as a partridge egg,
sun already stilting 
shadows in early afternoon. 
The leaves 
are October butterflies, crimson, gold. 

I want to stop earth's tilt-a-whirl right here, 

hold this moment that feels so much like love
before the winter’s swordsmith hones his blade.

                   First published in Poppy Road Review




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