Far from urban cats' howling grounds
And desecrated December architectures?
Do you shove them onto the top shelf
Of your tallest closet so that next July
When you move again, you will forget them?
Do you take them to Septembered crypts
In the forest where only chipmunks crawl
To die after a short but furious life?
Do you press them between August pages
Of a cookbook, dried and secreted
To sprinkle along with might-have-beens?
Do you line them along your fence facing
April's daily street, watched by children
Who have sprung from freshly sowed sidewalks?
Or do you leave them where they rest,
Like crumbs left by old men to feed
Young birds in blue arboretums in March?
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