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A Scorpio Poem

There is a stillness

in the air this morning.

Bare branches hang

like arms of crooked crones.

The pumpkin beside the pot of withering

mums is melting.  I’m melting

I’m melting, the wicked Witch

shrieks, and crows in their black

capes join her cry.

I love this season of Scorpio!

As the witch melts back into the earth,

as the trees sink back into their roots,

as the last moth flickers, then flies away,

a single balsam pops into sight.

Its fragrance, sweet and tangy, fills the air

with something new.

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