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Summer is Reluctant to Leave
by Connie Walle

She wraps her warm breath
around me as I lay naked
on the sheets. I am not her lover.

I wait for fall. He is on
his way. The trees already
are preparing for his arrival.

They dress in their best red
dresses and gold jewelry.
People will not recognize him.

They will call him Indian Summer.
I will know him when his morning
kiss is cool and wet with dew.

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