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Fallen Fruit Of The Persimmon Tree

I have stowed away my coffee spoons;
marching time engulfs my gloom.

Once I was the dandelion,
sun soft petals look so fine,
receptacle for wandering bees,
plucked by children with skinned knees,
fastened and linked to form a wreath.
A little joy at once bequeathed
before the wind scattered the seed

of the deceptive, backyard weed.
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Alison Cassidy 27 December 2009

The snippets of Prufrock fitted perfectly into this reflective piece about youth and aging; about angst and enlightenment? This is the first of yours I've read. I look forward to more. Love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

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Gary Witt 20 December 2009

How often I have identified with Mr. Prufrock. Do I dare to eat a peach? This is a well-crafted tribute, a most candid self-assessment. Thank you for sharing it. -G

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