Every year I tell you:
Short shorts and tube tops do nothing
for a woman your age.
Nor the beads and bleached braids,
nor the high-heeled cowgirl boots.

Please go home.
Sit by the fire;
knit me next winter’s socks.
I’m ready for the girl
with the basket of flowers and greens.
I don’t want you to show me the daffodil
tattooed on your withered thigh.


This one came on rather suddenly.  Yesterday’s prompt was to personify a favorite or least favorite season.

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