Harvest home

Pewter-soft the sound of singing dallies in the chamfered beams. A whirling spindle tunes the hearth. The batten door shuts in, shuts out. The trammel counts and counts the spoons. And basil in the gallipot anoints the morrow's meal. The goose is in. The night is long.

While daughters dance the apples dry and pray the wolves away, away, candles lapping at the brass renew their tryst with inner peace.

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