The bark meets the dusty soil
at an almost invisible seam
The drumming beat
of a slow crawling rush
Means a rite of time
Endless like the crackling
wrinkles of the wise one
Unashamed pride
in its powerfully carved lines
Wild and unabashed
by December it is striked
Small green hands
They float, they fly
Cold sun shines through white sheets
Translucent blades
down the stream jet blow against my side
Is that you on your way?
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