In the old orchard
we wandered hand in hand
beneath the vibrant branches,
heavy with dew, and age,
and we, young in years and spirit
saw the future ripening, in fragrant blossom and mellow fruit;
in warm rays and grass as green as our thought.
Now, in the rusting Autumn,
the fallen leaves cannot cover
the obfuscation of the clouds and the wayward moon
like the face of old Death
so small we can hide it behind a thumbnail
if we can only raise our hand.
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