Letters to Heaven

For my mother's father

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1. Trees in November

Today I miss you with the subtle sadness of trees in November, awakening to find their arms grizzled and bare. It is not acute; it is accumulative with summer peeled back leaf by leaf. A world dismantled in pieces. Softly enough to go unheeded until the whole scene is discovered to have been folded away. That is how i miss you: in pieces – leaf by leaf, particle by particle, memory by memory.

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