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The whisper of the aspen leaves' hushed flutter,
as in half-hearted rain they spiral down,
far removed from spring's eager quaking quiver,
commit their golden secrets to the ground.

A sodden carpet begun by their surrender,
unless a mischievous breeze extends a lift,
edges into the matter its version,
resulting in confluence, surprise or gift

Whispering or wilting or awakened aspen.
Early on in spring with trembling chords evoke
ushering the way to birch and willow,
now lead convoy of color, red maple, russet oak.

Reminiscent of sparkling eyes of sunny May,
of moonlight on the softness of young skin,
the mellow scent of summer's new mown hay
of skipping feet and the endearing grin

Will we hold close in annals of nostalgia,
aspen's catkin or the pussy willow of spring?
Will our memory cling to rain-fallen foliage,
with secrets hidden aspen leaves now sing?

@09/24/2019 Carol Welch
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