By Kenneth Frank Doig
No more options,
Spring fades, a green souvenir.
Mid stream astride slippery boulders,
Substance like fool's gold caught in ripples,
Hopes sluiced bare of desire,
Summer never happened.
Essence a reflection in a barber's mirror,
Autumn almost gone.
Papers clog the fence like dirty snow,
Winter, a newscast.
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Last update: June 8, 2001
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