The Will - Poem by Oskar Hansen
The trees down the hillside have taken a more sober hue
yellow, pale green and brown, despite the weather tries
to pretend it is still summer and tourists wear sunglasses
when in jeeps they explore the mystic interior away from
sandy beaches and summer charming waiters who hope
the summer will last forever, without it they will soon be
unemployed, yes, like it or not fall is here in all its glory,
and it is also the time when I must write my will.
I stop at a layby and compose my testament, the house
goes to my wife and money left in the bank after
the funeral expenses. My literary estate goes to my
brother, which means he gets nothing of value, anyway
he hates poetry, so this is my sweet revenge.
But I love fall and hope to live to see another one.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You