Elmhurst blue box reverie
Early autumn street
Dust of golden death
Emerging in the verdure.
In wobbly rows
Emptied blue boxes
Some aright catching the dew
Of morning
Some aside
Looking for the wind.
Some overturned
Void but closed to filling.
Just like us-
Cleansed of the detritus
Of our life.
What posture
Do we keep
Attending
The Great Recycler?
S. Wakeman 2 Sept. 11 (I)
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