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Sage in September

Sprigs for sunrise,

sprigs for Taos, and soldiers

on the steep blue sea.

The slopes of Taos,

true south, building, firing

to the aspen smoulder-golden—

sage for the cello in its breeze.

Sprigs for small things

rousted, on the run, Septembered.

Flocks of longspurs slipping down

the continent by night. Sage for them,

moving through the mesh

of the dangerous starlight.

from Bark of the DogFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © Merrill Gilfillan

Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Merrill Gilfillan Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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