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Two-Faced Summer 

All of this happens before.

Misty mornings,

Where trees, hills and chance skies

Trace soft lines against

The long edge of summer,

Glistening perfectly,

On stale afternoons

Before evening rises again,

Bathing us in its long, quiet pause.


None of this can be undone.

The daily rhythm,

Pulsing softly,

Then snapped,

While heat furrows once sweet spaces,

Now shadowy reminds of

Yesterday missed,

And a dusty cache of

Incessant tomorrows.

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Sam A. Flanagan

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