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Summer runs away. Why wouldn't it?
March snows and snows and I'd
abandon mountains for October
Palm Beach light.
Why not beat the gray Atlantic
hand on hand, til I'm so far from shore
I can't see back?
The fronts come in, come in,
full bellied, full of snow
and March mounts no defense.
I want a certain light. I'll go
months to find that one rose on my cheek,
a morning burning up a Mexique town.
This last of winter makes me weak.
Scott Murphy, © 1996