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These days, the fabric of Time
is thick burlap that chafes
and snarls itself into knots
even as it unravels at all its
Edges. It stays awake all night,
watching for Summer.
There are stories Time heard, oh
long, long ago now, of what
will happen when Summer arrives—
Tales of transformation, highly
fanciful, hardly credible, nothing more
than fables really, myths that promise
but so the story goes that Time itself will
Change, become bolts of green silk,
unfolding in luxurious swathes
over this whole world, swaying free
to the music of water and wind chimes
till it covers the ground
in smooth, soft waves
for Summer to float on.
Or so the story goes.

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