Shadows disjointed wind and air
Yesterday's mist on a copper kettle too long.
Tomorrow's mist searches the marrow.
No waiting, just lingering:
The Sun says a hot goodbye
The crickets sing with maturity, and with a blues tune shared.
The last Cicada droned loudly somewhere,
Butterflies don't care; they are blissfully drunk on Buddleia nectar.
Lingering. Some call it malingering. It's called ruin the day.
A carefree day blessed upon the worried frow.
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