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Brief Encounter in November
By George Freek

Clouds like abandoned children

float lost in the sky;

then drift away from my sight.

As leave fall from the trees,

a woman walks through

the dead leaves,

as if she were doing penance.

She stares at the rising moon.

Are her thoughts of that moon,

or of the stars beyond?

Is she looking for grace?

She avoids my eye.

Our chance to meet

drifts away

like those passing clouds,

and a baffled goose

honks defiantly at the somber sky.

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