Autumn arrives again, poignant and beautiful, full of ghosts, full of their tricks. We live to see the pyracantha, called fire thorn, burst its reds against a sharp sky. We live to hear the shiver of dry leaves in an orchard, in a graveyard. Children paint their faces, not knowing that this keeps them safe, but it does. We taste pomegranates and persimmons. They are sweet, they are sour and wake me to the late season.
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