Shoulder Season

No longer spring and not yet summer,

Garden sowed, not yet plundered.

A woven ring in humble splendor

waits to rest upon a finger.

Wheels somewhere rest unridden,

Juancho waits and watches.

No longer spring and not yet summer,

All of us for something wonder.

Will it, won’t it, has it ever

thought or fallen, carried over

been forgotten, lost, remembered?

Next shoulder season comes September.

Juancho

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