Poem: This Year

This Year

No berries have come,
have grown out of the great bush,
though they were there last year,
so many of them, sweet and perfect.
I do not know why 
they are missing this time,
what was done, or never done.
They should grow each year,
I think that is the way of it,
but I have not seen them,
have seen no sign of their arrival.
The bush is only leaves now.

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