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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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