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One could be blinded
                    looking for light.
I am awed by life and football,
confused at best; the plays
amaze me.

The wind blows warm,
                    the wind blows cold,
One day it keeps the kite aloft;
a child’s curls gleam in the sun
as he runs with the string.

Who knew so soon
                    he’d get caught up
in the storm? The kite
becomes irrelevant.  So, too,
the sun. It’s gone.

Someone should insist
that life state its intentions
at the beginning.  Honesty
like November’s would be welcome.
Gray days

indicate December’s near,
                     No need for despair,
there’s plenty of time to grab a blanket
and hunker down for the winter.
At least November plays fair.

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