Francine Witte ________________________________ Again Later in June, we would wish the rain over us, welcome that last crisp of spring. We wanted to hold these lovemoments, whisper of forever written in the tree buds. And yet we knew what was coming, sad repeat of last year’s summer, drying grass, bend of flowerheads into the field, the sudden broken promises, the surrender of our tired hearts. How we knew again that everything that started in April would show its fraying edges, and by summer the end of all of it would begin.
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