Untitled No. 1

It came slowly Like a languid Dallying summer breeze So that the world felt no less sweet When the wind slipped over. And like it came it went Into the scorching heat of summer Into the peril of fall And finally into the tragedy that is Winter But it left so slowly that the seasons Blended into one another And later it could not be told where it Was summer or winter in which It happened It was more that almost Fall and almost winter and almost spring Were just interchangeable place marks On the grueling, Slow road of loss

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