John Fuller


Come to the garden, that familiar place Where life renews itself against all odds. Untightening buds act out their memory, And dying seems a momentary pause.

Our star that took an afternoon to sink Hangs in reluctance from the darkening tree Like an amused and philosophic eye Penning his treatise of the out-of-doors.

We are the topics of his arguments, Enduring his extemporised revisions.

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