Geri Rosenzweig Snow Falling on McCabe's Orchard, Dear orchard of night, here's a kettle stammering on a tongue of flame, here's a cup without a saucer, a spoon with its tongue hanging out, and the lip of a pitcher waiting to pour comfort while the hands of tl1e clock shuffle the numbers and every latch and floorboard in the house, even sleep, hold its breath while I sit at the window watching you disappear, like the flowered communion veil of my seventh year tucked petal by petal into the whispering folds of tissue paper.
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