Poem: Sunset

The scythe – the scythe – the scythe

whose life cannot be denied

when cutting mean and clean

through the briars of life –

and –  

let us not forget

the sweet smell of hay on a summer morn

and yet – alas!

honest sweat in the ghost orchards

in ghost orchards yet

I shall never forget.

– Preston Pulliam (aka the Hazel River Bard)

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