AutumnalIt's not summer now. That's clear.
The chill creeps in, like an old enemy,
Even as the sun keeps shining, feebler
Apologizing, leaving noticeably early.
“Sorry; I'm just not myself these days.”
We know. Henceforth, we wait,
Through falling leaves and driving rain,
Through frost and snow, and months
Of choosing to observe the world
From inside our homes. Some distant
Day, the sun will convalesce, its warmth
Inviting us to creep outside, at last,
Assured that summer will return.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2021-09-22 at 13:55
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