the november

to speak
of brambles
and gray withered
branches,
of wetlands
in November,

is to think
of leaves
like spiders,
dead floating
on their backs,

and
water
still,
fragile,
and in a place
broken
by a crane
rusted
that cracks through
holding a flag
red,
shredded
white and blue.

nothing to hear
but smoke
nothing to smell
but heaven
and the sun
hidden
but out
if we can just
get our heads
above the clouds

I wonder
will we remember
come summer

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