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Thrill of Late Summer
his lips slipped upon mine; into dreaming
in the satellite of fall's chaste shadows
sphered by the last cast of summer streaming
onto our free skin, sunk in the shallows
our first kisses, our first mature outlet
for a latent love now bursts in our ears
from seeds sown in spring's bosom, mere trinket,
our little love, hedging, a nest appears
underneath the wakeful sun, its pure heat
receding, displaced by the chatoyance
of autumnal leaves waltzing where we'll meet
singing, unfazed, at the cold's arrogance
Copyright ©
Trina Layne
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