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Bouquets of eastern starlings, raving. Reaching out, fledgling saving, The garden sloth of heaven's hues Living in a bath of saffron dews. Darkend the plough that snails follow With troughs behind it tumbling hollow; And up the steepend crag it crowns, Margined off by aphid sundowns. Violent garden of solar grapes, some day we will barrel your shapes, And your gentle filligree reigns retake- Still cold before the Heavens's gate. After death, mother's wake, Finds her hatchling in the lake, In the mud its last breath take. Let these sail-white bones Forever sate Mother earth's gentle wheat.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

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