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tearing the rag off the bush again
Spring Holiday PDF E-mail

In spring, my parents

took the stove to pieces,

boiled each; bleached

the refrigerator, the floor;

everything made from flour

went out the door, dusted the awakening

 grass, thrilled the returning robins, other birds.


They worked into the midnight.


Then, my father was gone

the kitchen cold,

as quiet as a cup

and even the salt was lonely.
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