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The Portrait
by Kristen Rodell

This is a word painting
of the wooden gate I open each morning,
beyond which drifts of yellow leaves
lie in tall soft shapes
like a woman's handwriting;
it touches the autumn lake in silver and black,
with its thousand fingertips
that fold into the
hands of the rain.

This is a mirror
of the hammock dripping water
like dew from a spider web,
and the boat dock
spattered with white droppings
by a late flock of geese.
It reflects a bicycle planter
with October pansies
falling over wire wheels
like vivid kites trailing leaves as tails.

That should be all,
but somehow the sharp smell of
the neighbor burning sticks in a rusted barrel,
and the feel of wet grass on my heels
when I walk to the mailbox,
have hung themselves inside
the portrait.
This is not a word painting, then.
These things can't be held
in a frame.


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