February 7, 2011
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For a moment I am free, swimming till shriveled prunes replace my hands, dark tans, meaty cookouts on a sun bathed farm. Barefoot soles hitting soft ground again and again, wind sweeping my crisp straight hair, wrestling in green pastures. Sunrise at your window, fruit picnics at noon, sunsets set fire and burn us to sleep as we wait ever-so patiently for another summer day.

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