Dull gray green dogwood leaves hang limp, thin as old ladies' skin,
destined for anthracnose fungus and blight.It's time for some frivolous reading,
something with lots more pictures than text.
I'm in the mood for moonlit sand,
ghost crabs running up and down the beach, scouting,
searching for stranded voyagers.Dream on, Madeleine.
There's more to life than picking bones with a few old friends.The tomatoes have stopped setting fruit.
Flea beetles eat the eggplant leaves into olive lace.If I were a witch, I would be thinner.
My fingernails would stop breaking.If I were a witch, it would be raining now.
Turgor is important. Powdery mildew sucks
the bee balm to skeletons. I close the curtains
to wait the day out in dim rooms, panting,
hearing oceans in my ear against the pillow.Eventually nature breaks all hearts.
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