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By Rose Drew The first grey hairs streak Summer's head as the odd brown branch defiles the greenery of the trees The coming death sags my shoulders under the weight of imagined sweaters and then coats and then hats and scarves; I feel socks fuzz upon my feet, my shorts lengthen, carefree sandals thicken into boots my breath fogs. Anxiously, I peer up into each passing clump of branches, mindful of the road, but searching for the tell-tale red, or splash of yellow, proof that Summer's aged to fall Already sunsets are a riot of oranges, pinks, turquoises and purples a retreating sun's parting gift: big deal. Give me a full head of summer green atop each tree, and hot long days of shorts and sweat and sunscreen I don't need to be reminded Winter's coming. I can feel it in my bones. © Copyright 2004, Rose Drew, All Rights Reserved |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007