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On the farm


rides a bitter wind

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into all the fields,

stiffening soil and stubble.

It silvers the pump handle,

burns our hands,

whistles into cold crevices

and out of hot kettles.

Gray dawns miser out

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of pink and gold,

the smells of smoky oak beams

and the warm steam of

stalled cattle.

We relish hot thick soups -

beans and potatoes from our earth -

and we try our tongues on glittering icicles

tasting of ancient glaciers.

(c) Copyright 2000. The Christian Science Publishing Society