the cold is an audacious cad
making leaves blush from his advances
the cold's impatience marbles
the lingering September warmth
adulterating it with rushing vigor
that lacks in endless August days
the growing evenings glow
with fire revelries of patrons
needing more than one or two skins
the cold lures roots from
their soiled cellars and
fruits from their lofty perches
it spurs spinning of silks
by sickle shaped moonlight
until eight legs aren't enough anymore
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