Harvest

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HARVEST


Not yet. Now is time 

for dirt-creased thumbs

and poems barren 

of conclusions. 


Now is grass seed 

and word seed, seed

tossed arcing like a prayer,

a hope that, maybe somewhere,


an ear. Now? This is time

for calloused hands 

and calloused knees, 

the daily pulling of the weeds


around your plot,

however small. 

And come the Fall? 

Not yet.


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