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Loss of Cover

Outside the light

of November diminishes,

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the sun restless

in the linden trees.

Pruning from the bottom

my husband leaves clumps

of fat buds,

layer upon layer of closed blossoms.

It will take three years

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for the flowers to thicken,

the empty air to fill

with fragrance.

The loss of cover

is apparent from the outside.

Inside my desk is clear,

the inks put away for the day.

Propped against a shelf

is a photograph of the girls.

They live somewhere else now,

though the house they lean against is mine.

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