Three hundred rings along the creek,
five months dry—another chance
to live, another chance to die
marked with autumn’s fleeting
splendor. Soon naked and lithe,
these old sycamores will cavort
the winter long, memorize and
improvise each lunge and pirouette
until the dance is crystalized
within my mind. Blessed be
the seasons as examples of
yet another chance to get it right.
excellent
Sent from my iPad
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Thanks, Andy.
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