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Yield.

An underlying murmur rises, swells in my chest and fills my throat with unborn tears;
a lament for neglected fruit I’ve left to ferment in the sun, drunk off sips of sadness from this bitter wine.
Standing on tip toe in the orchard of ether, can they see it in my veins that strain against my skin, the struggle to harvest the sweetest fruits from so far down?
My fingertips will never touch them. My lips will never breath them.
But still I reach for them and long for them so I can feed them to you.

Virginia Frances Sterrett

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