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By Andrew R. Duckworth There is pepper in my beard,And it didn’t get thereThrough the dinner table.Streaks of white have creepedUp on my scalp.I’ve heard it before-Stress and old age.I’m thirty five.My father has a head of white.Sometimes I want to dye my hair.Other times, I’m ready to embraceWhat is coming-The hair that comes throughExperience…
Sound of Tails
Andrew R. Duckworth Are those the cicadasAwakening from a long slumberAlmost a squeal?No cicadas.The snakes have come outNear the house, too near.I saw a wild dog in the green space.It stopped and sniffed somethingIn the tall grassAnd then backed away,Unsettled and cowering.And then that sound.It’s the sound of tailsRattling with violent urges.
At the Worst and Best
By Andrew R. Duckworth I had climbed a bit too highOn this ole tree of mine.Can’t even tell you how I got thereWith so few branches.But, when it came time to come down,I was frozen,Clinging to the trunkLike a wild cat.It took many voices to talk me downTo the solid ground.But soon I foundMy feet…
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