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Thursday, June 19, 2008

Sonnet CLXXI

A month ago my visitors had come:
the bugs and moths and lovely little flies
in morning, shivering their fragile thighs
as cold and crispy fall began its numb
and ended summer’s happy reign of sun.
However, after noon the sun would shine
a lovely sheen of swarthy, sallow lime
and warmed my freezing friends of darkish dun.

But autumn carries through and scrubs the game
of false, pretending summer’s warming rays.
The growing chill of morn shall soon encase
my helpless insects, frozen on the panes.
And bearing autumn chill along the way,
I swear my vengeance as the heat abates.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!