no postcard

by underswansea

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And we’re no tourists. Our flesh is on the rocks and caught on the snags lying in the river.

It means you know your enemies and friends. Sometimes you can’t tell the difference. And that’s the way it is when you live in one spot for a long time.

The garden is dry. A few carrots and spuds. A cabbage here and there.

It’s fall, the time to preserve, we have so much. It’s easy to laugh. The sun is warm. The colours are bright.

But nothing good ever lasts.

In the back; way back of our minds, the snow is coming.

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