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Poem: Homesteaders 

They churn the butter
and feed the horse in the red barn.

As the Sugar Maples turn in sadness,
they discuss work-hewn hands
(dry as old leaves),

the black squirrel stooping on the porch,
round and unexpectedly sprightly,

the gentle joys of rice paper.

The day unwraps for their eyes,
coral, hungry, and bed-wet.

In the middle of the night
the wife will open her hands

and turn everything to sweet bread.

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