Paul Spella / The Atlantic

The butterfly dips
its wings in aroma of
violet wild orchid.

Red plums of summer,
first green figs, so many ears
of corn eaten raw.

Leaves that left the trees
are litter now on the ground
in orange and yellow.

No one on this road
but me: It must be autumn
in the dark country.

Comes the freeze, and rain
falls all through the night and soaks
the morning paper.

Winter blows its white
storms across the hills: Even
monkeys need raincoats.

The spring night vanished
while we talked among cherry
blossoms and petals.

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