It is not that springtime’s magic has fled.
The perfume of new cut grass remains as sweet,
The rose still startles with its first blossom.
Dew yet washes the face of meadow clover.
Nor has summer failed to lull us to slumber,
With its languid patchwork of sunshine and shadow,
Distant thunder rumbles amid cicadas
As soft birdsong calls upon the evening air.
Fall retains its finery of burnished gold and scarlet,
And jack-o-lanterns still sport their flickering grins.
But nowadays I am more drawn to the unique
Mysteries of falling flakes at close of day,
To the crackle and hiss of glowing logs
Settling in the pine scent of the fireplace.
A book, a beverage, a bit of baroque.
Half dreaming, half dozing, quiet shades
Tell tales of yesterday, last year,
Or perhaps it was some year before?
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