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Melons, peaches and corn

To the Sweeneysm When winter's moon hangs in the sky orange and succulent and over the snow the ears of early morning light fill out with yellowing kernels when the down of the sun takes on a rosy blush hungrily I stalk the fields plunging into oceanic craters ripping off the husk and silk of every orb gouging into skin and pulp letting the juice dribble from my chin and sweeten the ground like the freshest dew until there seems to spring from hidden sources golden fruit. These visions harvesting from frozen fields memories of tomorrow's yield.

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