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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




LATE IN OCTOBER

Its late in October
And autumn is over.
The snow is beginning to fall.
The first little flurry
Can turn in a hurry,
Becoming a blizzard or squall.

If I were a goose
In the snow-covered spruce
I would take to the south on the wing.
If I were a bear
Id repair to my lair
And would hibernate there until spring.

Saranac Lake, New York, 1996



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