Still Woman

 

Massive and unmoved by seasons,

she looks over a carpet of seeds.
Chestnuts fall like Mexican sweets 

during La Posadas. They’re strewn

around her stone bench

while a squirrel threads and tacks

across the tenure of her trunk;

its tail, a stole, adds grey breaths.

Autumn breaks open and runs on

in waves, while she has to be

perfectly anchored in that body;

her jigsaw shape locking the garden

together, where leaves reengage

to feather the hollow of her waist.

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