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Three Dayts After

Three days after Christmas

a cold rain falls, a kind of relief.

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Beads of rain form on twig tips,

on needle bunches, are flung down

by a low wind. The smell of winter earth

suffuses athe woods and fields

with cool rationality. We think now

of how to implement sober ideas.

A seed catalog has come in the mail.

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The potatoes in the bin are getting eyes

Sunset has moved an inch or two

northward. Somewhere wild geese

grow restless. We begin

to remove tinsel, to cut wood.

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