January 2003 / Volume Four / Issue One
Janet I. Buck
Nutmeg Leaves

In spent lime grass,
I finger a dead toad
I thought was a bundle
of twigs in mud.
Shudder at this pile
of death I should accept
like lettuce wilting in the heat.
Summer softness winter hard.
Shrubs turn gray as if a hand
picked burning vines.
Our rakes in a layer of rust–
blood of age
in transitory molecule.
Color is a symphony
wind won ' t play
until taut ice has lifted
in the mercy's fall.
We're old. We creak.
Irises turn brittle reeds.
Beside a stack of nutmeg leaves,
I am the waning cinnamon.
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