Talking it over -- Hancock Record 9-3-09
Go slowly, August,
we cannot part with Summer yet.
Each evening brings its own regret -
A crunch of brown in fading grass,
A cooling sign of winds that pass,
A hint of smoky Summer haze,
The subtle shortening of the days.
Wait, August, cling fast to summer's song;
Once here, Fall and Winter lasts too long.
Tell Autumn "stay," our Summer is not yet done;
Let the pond waves run in the morning sun.
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