the crimson rose is summer’s shroud.
We go to work in obedient lines
as she unfurls her perfume cloud.
Down the melting road we flow slowly
a cyclist mops his brow on the hill
as a black cat folds into shadow.
The trick of summer is working still
we are always deceived by her ruse
into believing in the eternal.
But life selected us, we did not choose.
The light wakes us; we are diurnal
invisible forces move through us
we merely turn to the sun, like the rose.
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