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There seems to be little escape,
the slowly advancing disaster
inching ever closer.
Lists of numbers and names
gain momentum in the daily news,
becoming familiar,
tugging heart strings in ways
foreign and acute.
Days march forward,
frogs returning to ponds,
birdsong greeting an ever
earlier sunrise.
Summer seemed to hold promise,
yet this, too, has become more
nebulous and fragile.
To see your face is lovely,
to feel your touch would
be healing.
Categories: Poetry