literature

eighty-three

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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
a thought that has been lingering for a while now
© 2012 - 2024 GigglingTot
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