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Father toiled hard with his hands in the valley of the four seasons.
Now given to the land blessed by heaven, lends hope was his reason.
The workings of man are but like the pollination of bees to flowers.
From the rising of the sun to the growing of dark, he laboured by the hours.
In the Delaware early dawn, a new peach pit remains to be born.
As bark curls with ragged edges, waits for the bud to transform.
He prunes back the dead limbs to bring life in the orchards domain.
Gifted in work, he applies his craft in pride of task and not for fame.
The peach tree blossoms in beautiful floral wide spread cerise.
Nature dresses the awaking of leaves with an absent of disease.
The fruit of the peach ripens under the sunlight in morning red.
The flesh of the fruit flows in the pulp, hung delicately by a thread.
Wildflowers budding in the early spring as fresh smells fill the air.
Yet without the sweet peach in the valley, scents would not be as fair.
There will be a lasting image of my father in the vale of the peach trees.
Now, it is I with my son looking at the legacy father passed down to me.
Submitted on July 05, 2016
- 1:04 min read
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|Scheme||AXXBB XXXX XCDD EECA|
|Closest metre||Iambic octameter|
|Stanza Lengths||5, 4, 4, 4|
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Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"Delaware Valley" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2023. Web. 30 Mar. 2023. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/69288/delaware-valley>.
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