Between Seasons

When she wakes,

the air crisps

like cellophane.

And I wrap her arms

in wool, in my arms,

in lavender-smelling blankets.

Her hands have already

doubled in size – and she

reaches for my face,

my cheeks, and dips her

forehead to mine.

By midday, summer heat

has returned, and we un-layer

like shedding snakes,

sit in the sun.

She watches leaves –

hears wind capture branches

like fingers waving.

At night, Autumn sings

through our windows

lulling, swinging.

She never wakes from

the sound of thunder.

Darling Clementine


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