A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

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Unlike the North,

The setting of the sun

Doesn’t bring

A breeze worthy of a light sweater.

These are warm summer nights in the South.

But they have a charm of their own

With their warm – but not to hot – breezes,

Blowing gently –

Lusting one into a lazy trance.

One could stare out at the pink sky of twilight here

And galaxies beyond the sun

And be content to just be.

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