PENULTIMATE SONNET                                                                     
Autumn sun; parrots, as if the last green
leaves, take flight, their call across the grass.
The pomegranate on the leafless tree
pecked open, a gash in the ruddy side.
Too thin for winter, its cold will burn her.
Whether she married in joy—something
thin now about it now. The child flinches
when she leans in to kiss him, sometimes
she is a bird pecking at the last sweet kernel,
sometimes an arrow shot clean from the bow.
If life too has its seasons. Winter as
the windblown beach, the whiplashed sea.
Whatever is felt, covered over in cloud,
nine oktas wide, as if in fog or falling snow.
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