Spring Harvest

Bright vibrant colors rise to meet the dawn. The reds, the purples, the greens. On hands and knees moving quickly through the beds, filling boxes to the brim. Cold water over the harvest, fingers grow numb. Songs of Spring, the spirit is the poet, the vegetables the poem, and we are at once both the listeners enraptured by the beauty of the verse, and the vowel sounds echoing at the end of each line, extending off the page into the ether like leaves extending up out of the ground to the sun.

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