Raymond A. Foss Poems

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The snap of the apple
fresh-picked from the orchard
the juices, sticky,
drizzling down in my beard
the bumblebees humming
the ground littered
the bruised fragrant fruit
laying in the shade
the crisp cooling autumn
wrapping round us
baskets, bags filling,
what we don’t eat
loaded down, sated
both in our bags and tummies
smiling broadly, freely
in the harvest, feast


February 1, 2010

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