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Oh sweet mosquito song of summer,
thrum of wings and splash of fish,
The praying mantis on a green leaf
almost hides itself in piousness.

Nothing is colorless, Even the air
wears tiny prisms of delight and sweet perfume
of gardens, bursting pea pods and pine scented
thyme, flowers blooming everywhere,
too exuberant to contain.

Summer,
A time when children increase a grade,
but shoes and clothes can’t keep up
with the growth spurt, Cut offs
at the mill pond,

Shirt drying on a shady shrub
and twilight
O blessed breeze
that dries the sweat and tears,
the comfort

of grandma’s squeaking porch swing;
three generations of flaking paint
and still, no update
has replaced it.

Leaves are writing poems
of the coming fall, dreaming colors
heretofore unseen,
as poets ply their pens
to season’s end.

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