Winter is her least favorite lover.
Her feet are cold, and
She steals the blanket from me.
She prefers Spring and
Its soft, flowery ways
though its lost, and
Distant at times.
There is still evidence
Of Summer and flowers
She creates with her warm fingers
On my back.
In all her fiery passion
She sings like birds
In her house before Fall of winter,
Whispering sweet songs
From her caramel colored lips.
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