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Nicholas Gordon
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Fruit abounds amid the press of labor.
Old, abandoned plants produce sweet plums.
Rivers run unseen through ripening fields.
The heartscape sings, dreams unremembered answer.
Youthful still, the mother waits and listens.
There is much in summertime to savor,
Hard though the work until the harvest comes.
Revel, then, in what all seasons yield,
Even as each leaf becomes a dancer,
Even as the white world gleams and glistens.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.
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