Orchard
The apples red in the orchardWe paid and traipsed on out
Between us a basket to tout
Picking apples is not hard
In no time at all apples heaped
We turned back to our van
Away from earth back to man
With the bounty we had reaped
Orchard
The apples red in the orchard12-06-2009
11-27-2009
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
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