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The Pumpkin Field With tenderness, we march across a barren land. Past the abandoned greenhouse where the city’s nativity set is stored. Over a mosaic of broken glass and rotting vines. The soil, victim to a suffocation that leaves no trace. Two seasons ago, strawberry blossoms opened here. And everyone from the corn huskers to the ice cream shop owner came out to collect the abundance of a sharp seeded promise. Now we are past the sweet time: when this field offered its fruit without hesitation, begging to be filled with mystery, laughter, and candle wax. Searching for the harvest once offered to us, we follow a tenacious horizon, without deviation, until its natural end. |
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