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Marisa Wallace Dec 2012
As metaphors sweep the floors
All the dust mites scream and cry
For they know what's coming next
They know that they must die.
They wonder what their next purpose will be 
Perhaps help something grow?
The dust begins to rain on top of old rotting fruits,
Soon to be used as to nurture the soil,
Then to be found under my boots.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2022
Something’s changed.


6:00 AM Sun August 16 2022

The temperature today will baby step
up the kitchen ladder, careful, senior slow,
to hover at a pleasant 79 Fahrenheit.

But, I am unfooled.

‘tis the birthing of the
changeling of mid-Augustus,
June’s initiating summer solstice,
an intimate longing now a long
gone forgotten memory, now a
calendar X a valedictorian graduate.

But of late, the sun has lately been
heisted by late afternoon by a batter
thick grayish cloud cover, right here,
hovering upon this godly place on earth.

there is a underlying fragrance, familiar,
an unmistakable chilling odor of cool fall.

an urgency emerges, hurry up you,
pluck the blueberries, harvest the peaches,
because trace hints of crispin fall apples,
falling browning foliage, curling leaves,
pumpkin flavorings and yellow gourds
is unjustly barely there, a definitely discernible.  

Back-to-school ads replace banners proclaiming
bargain prices for summer necessities, vin rosé.

Even the squirrels are enjoying a Sunday rest,
after mornin’ worship, no feverish acorn collection,
a subtle hint, winter supplying must be nearly done.

dare not superstitious say out loud, the **** geese,
have made themselves scarce going on two weeks,
having learned a trick or two from the Ukrainians,
I chuckle to think that we may have regained territory.

But, I am unfooled.

Morning boats of all ilk and demeanor ply-plow the
bay waters, but all seem less hurried, savoring the pretense
of forever long summer days, beyond-belief sunsets, soft white
ice of creamy calming waters, no impasto^ seas wintry rough.

Return-to-bed, coffee mugged, I await the Dumps early call,
the sorting done, metal, plastic,compostable, so easy to bring
order to our daily detritus, thinking if only one could sort the seasons then I would be a forever summer man, here,
on this godly place.


But, I am unfooled.

7:06 AM Tue Aug 16 2020
Shelter Island, N.Y.

————————
^Impasto is a technique used in painting, where paint is laid on an area of the surface thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting-knife strokes are visible. Paint can also be mixed right on the canvas. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears to be coming out of the canvas.
T R S Jul 2019
"Hey!"
"I hope you have had a wonderful morning!"
"I'm your milk dude"
"Yes ma'am, I'm apart of the diamond package."

"Yes, MA'AM! Yes we do... but the residue you find around
the corner of your bed is due to all the
fat Sedona sand skitters."

Yeah... yes ma'am. They ruin the land with their compostable cat litter"

It's a pity to ****** about,
so I rerouted my question.

"Umm... I came here to learn a lesson about life and love, and every little bit held in between."

"Okay, well you'll have to turn in, because there is a lot of sinful fog in the air, so maybe it's time to repair what we can and have time for."
Kaitlyn Marie Feb 2020
You sit on a chance until the non compostable breaks and sinks into the earth
the moon is closer than it appears and if dandelions don’t have a place than most people don’t





-kaitlynmariesdiary

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