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The old apple orchard
has lost its orchardist
Trees return to brambles
Their worm eaten trunks
blistered with disease
bleed fat blobs of pitch
Still on the long limbs
there lie rows of buds
Tight bound up in shells
Pressed hard as old coal
until like bloodstones
they slice in laser light
We long for the spring
old & gnarly as we are
Our juices settled to roots
in liquor too thick to pour
much less to swallow
from this decanted life
Poet's Corner 