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And What Shall it Yeild


It is like the fruit of the vine that does flower

Growing slowly into sweet small treasure

Each bloom becomes succulent bead at right hour

Growing fully rich, sweet beyond measure

Even without the vine knowing or feeling pain

One treasure begins to reach glorious peak

Slowly turning sugar from dew and drop of rain

Becoming a gift although sheathed in skin too weak

Its skin thinning, growing loose and splitting

Then suddenly fruit from the vine is torn

Pieces falling to the ground each hitting

As though shed by its beloved leaving it forlorn

Silently gone and the vine weeps without sound

More shall fall soon as though an endless wake

Yet ever striving the vine grows on duty bound

Always wondering when in its labor it will break

Carefully the vines are tended with effort to behold

Old vine pruned and shaped to create the new

But no matter the work for the new shall grow old

and what then when they yield but sadness too?

Karen Quinn 2001/2013 rev.


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