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by Mary Flynn
Come with me, we won't be long;
the fire will keep, the soup will hold;
watch how the sunlight nickels through the trees,
dollops of silver along the mulchy path;
breathe with me‐old burning,
damp pine and wood must, everywhere gold;
listen how autumn strums the leaves
in late song and whistle-whispers;
cricket quiet, bee-buzz gone;
soon the snow-hush blown-glass freeze;
soon the heavy white-quilt warren.
Come with me while there's still time
for the season and for us.