Late Upon my Youth

Waist-length waves of sorel brown catch the wind and fly.
Small frame dressed in obsidian to match the disquiet within. Unwilling in a dry apple orchard, passing a woven basket. 
At autumn's onset, much will be harvested, the uncertainties. But the others, they fade like stiff grass and the cornflower sky. Traipse across cement,
presenting the spoils. Ah, it's spoiled, but decades away, she will 
ascend and leave the gravel paths. The significant, dividing shift. 

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