What We Had to Do

Into the orchard
spilled the light of another sun.
Trees bloomed in autumn
too late to set fruit.
Branches bent
with the weight of winter.
Limbs twisted and snapped
like the tortured saints
of a misologeic faith.
So we sharpened the axes.
So we did what we had to do.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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