How quickly September approaches,
and how much later the light
now wakes me in mornings,
as though a thought
slips in-between,
where I am wrapped loosely
amongst the sheets,
to pull me in closely,
to kiss me from sleep,
while eyes adjust to who and what,
I know will one day arrive;
here, in this quiet morning,
in this fading of the night,
from what is to what will be.

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