How We Overflow

We will return tomorrow to harvest more.
Sweating rain, we are full of plucking,
our hands and shirts scratched and cut.
In our forties, we overflow with summer’s
bounty, ripe and drooling over the sink.
We may never sleep again knowing not far,
off a dirt road near the new house, a heaven
waits where we left ourselves among the
plums of Oron Road.

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