Evening in October,
summer now
deliciously out of reach,
like a lingering itch
in the center of your back
String of tiny lights
strung around an awning,
casting a golden glow on garden
chairs whose seats
are now reserved
for mounds of damp brown leaves
Smoke hangs
heavy in the air, resting
sweetly on winter's first chill
The road we used to walk along,
when evenings stretched
well into night
--alight with fireflies
and hazy stars--
is rutted and slick with frost,
like fine white lace on the mud
But our fingers are still
entwined, and your hand,
your fine, strong hand,
is still warm
in mine
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
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