Boots cough, scuff the floor
poets rising from the couch
with false starts, we seek balance
We grunt, the couch gives
shoves us back onto our feet
old age, less forgiving
My back reminds me
we were all young together
pinched nerves, burning fire
A young redwood grove
planted too far from the creek
not enough thirsty tinder
for a fire's first meal
Birch log bench rocks me
dry grasses scribble the wind
to welcome the Fall
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