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"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Ray Cicetti


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Autumn in New Jersey

A Middle Eastern friend tells me autumn is unbearable here—
the morning chill, days in half-light two meager months of summer,
he says, and dreams for a return of summer's blinding heat.

He grimaces at his furnace's ping and clank—the sugar maple's
crimson blaze—hungry monarchs on the milkweed, a harbinger
of what's to come. In my country, he tells me, it's 95 degrees.

He finds no refuge in the blue cornflower, or the kettle of red-tailed hawks
over distant fields. He frowns at the cool canopy overhead,
prays for life to blossom again under sun-scorched days.

But raised in the beauty of each season's turn, I view these days
with wonder—the snap of October's air, blue rushing into blue—
the ruddy moon, full and low, over the broken hills.