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Literature Text
divide such a number as
83
and you get 15;
seventy miles-per-hour
this
used to be
my way home.
Home to the cold,
where every season
has a smell:
autumn is not an
overnight sensation but a
kick-back in the kayak and
watch the water
dazzling in color;
decay begins but never
overwhelms the senses
because cold takes over.
The smell of
complete stillness,
cessation
and pending snow storms,
this is the smell of
cold;
add in
wood fires and
sweaty sled-riders,
it is intoxicating.
In creeps spring,
Summer,
hesitating
and filled with
lilac blossoms,
funnel cakes and
festivals for every
occasion.
These days
83 only
multiplies
and home
never welcomes me
83
and you get 15;
seventy miles-per-hour
this
used to be
my way home.
Home to the cold,
where every season
has a smell:
autumn is not an
overnight sensation but a
kick-back in the kayak and
watch the water
dazzling in color;
decay begins but never
overwhelms the senses
because cold takes over.
The smell of
complete stillness,
cessation
and pending snow storms,
this is the smell of
cold;
add in
wood fires and
sweaty sled-riders,
it is intoxicating.
In creeps spring,
Summer,
hesitating
and filled with
lilac blossoms,
funnel cakes and
festivals for every
occasion.
These days
83 only
multiplies
and home
never welcomes me
a thought that has been lingering for a while now
© 2012 - 2024 GigglingTot
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