The Harvest

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DORINDA WEGENER

The leaves are down. March
mud slick from frost, this

morning, my breath is
the scratch of limbs.

Ahead, from apple crate or child's
palm,

small piece of purple
tissue paper

wraps the last bole.
Lent is a season

of final thoughts, fruitless
with the loss of you.

By our faith in apples,
what could save us?

And beyond all this,
a mound of dirt,

splintered wood
for a barrow.
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