We eye contact an old bard bored
In a bearded head, from centuries
Of yellow leaves or a few or none.

When winter wind passes window
The leafy spring is left far behind.
Poetry does not come like leaves.

We rake poetry words like years,
Yellow and few or none in snow,
When all is white as inside bone.

(William Shakespeare’s sonnet That time of year though mayst in me behold)

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