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Harvest Come Home

My father sits huddled
in his winter mind
stubble and chill
have aged him
I gather him in
in skirts as ripe
as I am -- no longer a girl
but willow strong
bending and sowing
gathering all my pretty ones
poems and dreams

I call out father
who was oak
father who was tree
I reach for you 
with twigs and nestlings
small gray doves to sing
in your branches
I billow my skirts
and send them flying
up up up through your spare hours
and brittle leaves
you whose song turns
back on itself and chokes
mute and stammering

Harvest I say
harvest come home
there is plenty for you here

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