Little Granite Girl

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She keeps a vigil
Over the fragrant gardens:
Little granite girl.

Arms crossed, pentitent,
Her sculpted hair blocks her eyes.
She does not complain.

The autumn’s colors
Remain quite a mystery.
The names still faze her.

What is meant by “red”?
What is “yellow”, “brown”, or “green”?
No sight, no meaning.

Sounds are her canvas.
Hear the rustling of the leaves!
Lo, the chirping birds!

The rush of a brook!
An orchestra of life plays
Nature’s symphony.

The earthy aroma
Of the leaves are sweet perfume
Made of memories.

Wind whistles by her.
Autumn chill seeps through bare skin.
A breeze, refreshing.

There is contentment.
The blank canvas in her mind
Now fully painted.

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