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The perfect poem for spring from long-time contributor Robert K. Johnson.

HIGH

on the greening lawn

of their hilltop house,

a young husband

bends over

in order to barrel

the pile of dead leaves

their work compiled

while his young wife

leans on her rake

just as a breeze

plays with her hair.

So spring begins.

— Robert K. Johnson

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dougholder@post.harvard.edu