We overlook the garden, let
the leaves slip into slickness
and harden into
ochre moats.
The dahlias hold their shape
a few stoic days––
like pursed lips glossed,
like winter-waxed plums––
then succumb
to the first hard frost.
The pots are lost. November
has un-kilned them––
classic urns splintered
into crazed cracked shards,
divining rods pointing out
their origins––
clay to clay,
red dust to dust.
Header photograph © Asher.
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