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in the quieting of the day,
in the mellowing of the year,
in the slowing of all things once so hurried and so rushed,
my soul settles, settles into this savory, seasoned time,
this autumn time,
in the smoke of a far off september fire.
in the whisking of the dusty leaves,
in the dappling of the vintage light,
in the cooling of the last summer’s warmth,
my soul snuggles, snuggles into this time for flannel shirts,
this autumn time, this sweater time,
in the smoke of a far off september fire,
probably a farmer’s fire,
the last sacrifice of a harvest field.
in the honking of the distant geese,
in the drifting of a russet maple leaf down to earth,
in the scurrying of squirrels now running late,
my soul smolders, smolder in its smoky thoughts,
this autumn time, this soulful time,
in the smoke of a far off september fire,
probably a farmer’s fire,
the last sacrifice of a harvest field,
before the long, cold winter surely comes,
and memories, however good, give way once more to dreams.
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