ok, so i had to go way back in the archives of one of my favorite blogs to find this poem...which has been curiously on my mind.....
Sylvia Plath - Frog Autumn
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.
we do not use the word lamentably often enough, although the sentiment is felt daily...........
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