Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Twenty-Three

twenty-three

her last september never came;
the august sickness took its toll.
in solid stone, they carved her name:
a soundless word on grassy knoll.

as leaves turn colors of her laugh,
red-orange and gold on autumn’s breath,
the bells mourn one so young to pass -
she, even beautiful in death.


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Elegy for a teacher.


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1 Comments:

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12:46 PM  

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