Apple Orchard Fall
It is almost too cold now
To be in the tops of trees
Shivering in snagged mittens
A woolen over coated ornament
Like black spotted fruit
Gone from sweet to bitter
Whipped by Autumns whining
Amidst garrulous planning birds
Fall conducts her noisy birth
So you whisper “Good Night”,
Your lips pressed against the bark
For that is where the heart is
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