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He plays his vines with graceful arms Like violins with greening strings Pruning shears in loving palms And through the lines with airy swings He sees, not overgrown old things But music of the summer flute Looking toward the sky he hears The orchestrating sound of fruit Smells summer, feels the warming charm Of growing grapes, the fruit of kings And feels his own fast deepening roots. He leads his orchestra of vines.

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