Life without whimsy is not much of a life at all; without it, a walk in the dark is no laughing matter.
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Crisp air, an autum breeze
Coverlet drawn to the chin.
A nap
Cool amongst dead leaves.
Our rest ends the summer days.
Written by David Wilkerson
6 March 2008 at 11:51 pm
Posted in metaphysics, poem
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