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A harvest

By Jane Hirshfield / January 6, 1984

Thin roads splice field to field in the early light. Under the trees, many pears lie opening to the ground. This landscape is the ripeness I choose, my hand on the kitchen table passing from sunlight to shadow, warm wood to cool, and back: a harvest of dusty lanes, too small for naming, that join, one to another, through the day.

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