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Autumn Dawn, After Fog

Patty Crane

Comes a slit of brightness 
as the fused gray layers lift
the fields to silver, mown paths
like rivers of first-ice—every
blade of grass scattering light, 
the glass outlines of leaves 
in the young maple tracing
its veins, waking me 
to the world that is my skin,
my brief temple of flesh.