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Autumn: A Villanelle

The blue sky hugs the line of colored trees,
The birds call out,
And gently blows the breeze.

Smells of pine and burning leaves and these
Barbecues and cookouts while the sun is still about;
The blue sky hugs the line of colored trees.

In the morning, grass's dew begins to freeze,
Too cold for spring's dainty gifts to sprout,
And gently blows the breeze.

Yes, the temperature drops, making us all cough and sneeze,
For winter is coming! but 'til it takes its route,
The blue sky hugs the line of colored trees.

So take in the beauty surrounding each one that sees;
You view this last hurrah, comtemplate, but don't doubt,
And gently blows the breeze.

Store a mental picture, as silence begins to seize
You; if warmth must go, how well it does go out!
The blue sky hugs the line of colored trees,
And gently blows the breeze.



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