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Doug Van Hooser

Crab Apple Pips


Every day in my November

The sun arrives late, leaves early

The wind whistles a dissonant tune

I rake the souls of leaves


For some reason this year 

There are no acorns

Chipmunks must wonder why me

As they bore their burrow deeper


The shades of brown are questions

I don’t want to hear

The stoic oaks give no hints

The mums oblivious 


Frost has sunk its teeth

Snowflakes pirouette 

I wander through this denouement

A sparrow still finding seeds

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