I can feel the summer dying in me
I can feel the sun being pulled from my pores like money from pockets on a crowded street
The cold leeches the warmth from my face and reaches with Gypsy fingers -- long, slender, reaching and unwinding the Lingering scent of lake water and grass stains from my hair
the echoing cicadas deaden in my ears
And the woven colors gently encircling my wrists fade in their loveliness