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Mrs Midas

It was late September. I'd just poured a glass of wine, begun
to unwind, while the vegetables cooked. The kitchen
filled with the smell of itself, relaxed, its steamy breath
gently blanching the windows. So I opened one,
then with my fingers wiped the other's glass like a brow.
He was standing under the pear tree snapping a twig.

Now the garden was long and the visibility poor, the way
the dark of the ground seems to drink the light of the sky,
but that twig in his hand was gold. And then he plucked

a pear from a branch. - we grew Fondante d'Automne -
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Izmefjfjjf 22 February 2018

Ye is ya boy a mad ting ya no

1 0 Reply
NiceGuy69 16 October 2018

What a beautiful, thoughtful comment sir, Have a wonderful day!

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