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Aug 2011
my august crisped shoulders long for pallor
and the warm graze of sea foam green wool sweaters.
my tongue yearns for the pleasing punch of cinnamon
and the silent shocking spice of pumpkin.
long nights full of honey glazed tea
and apricot scones that melt me from the inside out.
electric bulbs resting on branches
illuminate the leaves who surrendered
to the numbing temperatures
that seep into all things they reach.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford
Written by
HR Beresford
681
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