Holly Blues

If not for the holly blues
lapping from the pool
in a bootprint; if not
for the american lady
opening and closing
like a thumb book
atop a small stone
prefaced with lichen;
if not for the scuffle
in the witchgrass
and the cool spun
shadows of vultures,
you’d think this thick
August air, this bovine
heat is the end
of all praise. But no,
praise too the coming,
the squandered reds
of Autumn, the knuckled
clasps of Winter, the soon
and locked remembrance
of all things blue.

Image: Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

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