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TheSilent Loudness


I am


The old handed man of the cherry farm picked his newly ripened cherries.
He squinted, his hat covered most of his brow, to make doubly sure they are ready.
Smiling quietly (as it usually is) and shoving a little dirt with his foot,
The old farmer blushed with the soil on his boot with the fruits of his labor in touch.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Topic of this poem: free verse


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