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Comments about Julie Schronk
Little birds perch in barn rafters
and gather the dead end of summer,
when the last leaves of the season
are but left there for a reason.
taps broomweed and goldenrod,
touching their leaves in shivers,
and the world winds down to rivers.
Soon it will be frosting on the cake,
when winter snow comes in,
like bride and groom,
and chocolate make,
and all the world is white
upon the wedding cake.
The sycamore will disown its own,
a rich uncle casting leaves,
into all the nooks and crannies,
and all the ...