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Bushel Basket

Tags: love
It was the end of the growing season
Canning pickles was going slow
Ma in the kitchens blanching ripe tomatoes 
Wearing a yellow ribbon tied in a bow 

Then it hit me, I was only reflecting
Ma had passed on 'bout a year ago
While capping pickles in a jar
The bushel basket a few 'cumbers low
I recall I was in the yard whittling
A new fishing pole and listening 
To the electric radio and static
When I heard the basket drop
My best friend had just past
To the fresh market in the sky
Leaving me with green apples
And a sweet pie 

Now that I fish using that pole
Thinking about the good times ago
And vegetables in the garden
The bushel basket a few 'cumbers low

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