COMFORT ME WITH APPLES


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Comfort me with Apples

For I am sick of love, but feed me, sweet,
On wild and bitter fruit from upland tree
That bore a savage harvest, late and few,
For nothing else could ease this ache in me.

The orchard fruit for those who love in peace,
Who loose the earth about the root, and feed
With careful hand the heavy laden bough,

For me the deeper want, 
the stronger need
The fruits that blossom on high lone hill,
That need no care, 
but in defiance cling
To earth untended, grow with wind and rain,
And 
lock within their core the taste of spring.

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Eilene Cameron Henry 
circ.1960 
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