Outside, after weeks of thinking about resumes
and salaries
and typing speeds
and ironed slacks
Of thinking about little else,
finally,
I walk outside and my body feels
as light and sparkly as the bleached grass
between the barn and the old plum trees.
There is rain on the stalks, still in their uneven clumps
and the plums, over-ripe, are the deepest, dustiest purple.
The neglected water sprouts bow to the ground
with heavy, uninterrupted rows
of fruit nestled tightly in the cover of leaves.
These trees are old, unpruned,
and still they make more food than we can eat.
I feel so earnest,
plucking sustenance from their craggy branches
under the cover of clouds.
They do not even ask for my resume.
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