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Glady's pond-back

The curtain lifts, with audience inattentive, leaves of scarlet, gold and rust.

Careless lovers kick their feet through the first scenes of trust.

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A child interrupts an image of fancy to touch a beckoning branch,

while gusts caress the loving treetops, sparking whirlwinds of dance.

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The writer sits with pen in hand to judge each minor flaw.

But in the act his view changes to humbleness and awe!

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His part; to write a descriptive line with a creative hue.

Time stands still as the leaves, still falling, give him the perfect cue.

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But what of you who listen now to yet another part?

Do you critique, stand aloof, or hear with open heart?

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There is no lighter joy than to be on stage catching leaves as they fall,

but also sit in audience within the director’s call.

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