![]() Don't think I don't know standing there in brown beds of frost-soft hostas what faded is. Hands burdened by the last tomatoes. Cucs, eggplant and musty summer squash. All memory-on-tongue. The roses gone. It's in the air. Crisp-apple-tart and sunsets' pumpkin-celebrations when the rains don't ice-needle the day away... Too soon cold-so-cold it can't be shirked off will worm into our bones and we'll crave fire, the good book, tea, a strong pick-me-up for sleep and dream of wild raspberries' juice of summer.
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AuthorPoet. Writer. Teacher. Artist. Archives
August 2023
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