Oh, how we ached in the chill of December
For the sultry swoon of summer’s
days,
Where time is a turtle
free of his shell
Floating soft on holiday.
And fragrant fields and
meadows yield
A sensory boondogglement,
As air stands still upon
the hill
And summer rains are
heaven-sent.
Away you probing question
marks.
Away you wicked doubts
and fears.
How dare you bore upon my
door
Now that summertime is
here?
Tis only playful summer’s
guests
Can enter here, can pound
their chest
And dance the dance of
folly’s fool
Until the sun sleeps in
the west.
But even summer runs hers
course
As autumn bites upon her
nape,
And the turtle waits
inside his shell
To taste the wine of
summer’s grape.
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