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Still Life   
by Donna Wahlert

We have stretched past
our middle years, olive trees
ready for the late autumn pressing.

Our children are grown, ripe as Bosc pears.
Our grandchildren are in the vineyard
awaiting their first cutting.

Our fathers are asleep in the field.
Our mothers walk in the mist
toward the furrows.

Some of our leaves have faded;
some pile up on dried grasses.
But we still have patches

of cobalt green and yellow ochre
layered on us with a kind palette knife.
The light still comes from the east.

We gently await
the artist’s next brush stroke;
savoring this stolen season.

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