The clouds overhanging the horizon are the color of coal, and…
for Tony Earley and after his fashion
I’ve determined the quiet beauty of things
is what I hearken to, the grace
of a papery butterﬂy tipping
over the purple frill at the tops
of ironweed, the ﬁeld splayed
up the hill and misty, the end of summer.
Nothing like an understatement
to inspire, or rain a ﬂood in the mind
to leave it glimmering and deep.
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