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All his mornings
in distant lands
the fingers of his soul
Reached out
caressing,
even making love,
To the wheat fields of his home.
Truly,
as a lover knows
the ripeness of his mate,
Fingertips,
in gentle, flowing touch
knew harvest near.
Heart-satisfied,
his farmer's soul
reclined upon its inward couch...
And smiled.
Jo Anzalone