PAUSE AT SUNSET

Guilded rays of dusk strike
their tendrils through the tree leaves;
the rale of the Summer season
percieved
as nothing more than the Zephyr
that moves through the green
in a calm waft
or breeze.
Briefly
he is appreciated
in southern heat
sticky skin relieved
if but for a moment
’til cool showers can clean off
the gritty salt
of another day’s hard work.

They call for Autumn to come early
come quickly
but will soon regret
Summer Death
when Winter Frost unseats her.

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