Eventide. . .
fresh darkness
rings the big, soft chirp
of crowding little crickets
that sing their song outside,
and soothe by entering my ear,

As fresh-wafting,
crisp cool air
makes whispers
‘cross my skin
and breathes me deep,
though I’m right here,
inside. . .

It calls me so
to venture forth
upon a stroll
that rolls
into a stride,
out there. . .

For I know
that that will
be my aid,
this pesky urge
(to write too many words)
to override.

This entry was posted in Autumn, Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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