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Whitesbog On The Edge Of Autumn The frothy autumn wind splashes an old farmer’s face. He raises his crooked arms And opens his dry mouth drinking the juicy rays of the tangerine sun. He is widowed and alone. exhausted- dreaming- He waits for release the corroded cell of his body rusted with time. Cranberry daydreams Blueberry fantasy Laboring for years like a plow horse for the sweet survival. He drifts inside a pool of forgotten memory. Echo’s of laughter tickle naked branches inviting them to dance. Children frolic and sing. A plentiful harvest The villager's bellies brim with riches. Lavender kisses at twilight A glimpse of heaven’s pasture Evokes surrender. calm- gentle- An eternal sunset inside fleeting moments. A thousand tiny angels tip toe on tea colored water. They sparkle for him illuminate his joy. relief- love- the pain melts all is quiet on the edges of Whitesbog. Winter is here. |
Additional Notes:
Whitesbog is an old turn of the century cranberry and blueberry farm.
All suggestions welcome. I wasn't really sure how to punctuate this.
:)
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