RUMMERY SWAT
When Summer bears its edges bare and we know
that it is leaving, it's soon the time then for the
change of yet another season. Everyone begins
the storyline anew : such a chilly morning or,
more simply, Summer's over. As if it ever had
a chance. As if there stood a moment, before the
beckoning, when the quaint rustle of a paper
calendar page needs not the tearing motion.
Before the sun goes down this day, I'll notice
myself perhaps the change - another angle of
light I didn't notice so sharp before, the stipend
aggrieved for what it costs to stay alive amidst
such a changing frieze. Moments of time dilapidate
themselves; the lemon in the lemon drop, running dry.
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