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through the Hirschhorn garden and
shelter by a glossy-leaf magnolia,
a big bronze walnut on the lawn.
I try to write down its details
on an old Comcast bill; pen won't
write, makes a hole in the paper;
I stuff the bill in my pocket, see
the sculptor's name is "Fontana"
like the tricky cop in "Law and Order."
Christopher T. George
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Rapscallion Mood
New Year's Day, just before my sixtieth birthday:
in a frigid breeze, the red-berried holly sloughs
against yews where last February I photographed
a scatter of berries on an ice-glazed snowfield.
Oh, fortunes in berries I will never own in my life!
Wind chastises my cheeks; metal streetsign screams
its protest. As white clouds race across blue skies
beyond high rises, ice crystals glow a rainbow hue.
Christopher T. George
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