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Autumn Won't Come Soon Enough
 
the air is breathlessly still.
a halo of cigar smoke rolls,
and folds around my face,
like the billowing fog,
that's beginning to settle in,
as if the low areas between the hills,
were lungs,
and the land was smoking-
celebratory,
of fall's early arrival like a newborn.
a gust of wind, even the faintest breeze,
would be a welcome cough,
amongst the fog and dew,
as it echoed a heartbeat of tree frogs.
perhaps, summer's tongue,
is sore from it's cigar's richness,
and a sweater-night,
would be the glass of water,
washing away the bitterness,
of the season's smoke.

By southernblood

© 2017 southernblood (All rights reserved)

 

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