{s'mores were made for summer}

the rites of summer
find shelter in a sacred alcove of my heart
when the battering ram of winter comes to call
i will tuck them in, a bit mournfully however,
impatiently tending to them in their dormancy
with the fervent hope that they will someday
shed their embedded comfort
in favor of heeding the urgent summons
of a burgeoning Spring


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