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Branches
Gold the young moon
above an Andalusian grove.
Love vines bind us
as we share the same wine.
In a sterile Spanish clinic
her cat-scan is read in a dead language.
I keep looking at the stark image,
hoping to see Olive and Date Palms
not these smoldering shadows,
branching through her being,
as if she were a vineyard
on fire.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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