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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

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