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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2005023
Poem about an old spruce tree that I have known for a long time.
Yon weeping spruce
so brave and so strong
relic of designs long past.

Your friends they are gone
long shredded to dust.
What luck!
that this old man
still stands.

Blue ragged needles
adorn haggard trunk.
Many branches long dead
dry and brown.

Like the sparrow or wren
I shall miss my old friend
when next
they lay waste
to this ground.


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