Frou Frou Foxes In Mid Summer Fires I learned to burn without light to leave no trace only the smoke grasping onto the hope of the gust that would ******* away. Yet, it still tumbled and never arrived. It slipped and seeped right through my cracks like dust to fine to tug. As though it knows I am not worthy of its mourning. Foxgloves wilted-- much too late. You no longer fill me.