Unleafed,
Hardened by wind and slanted light,
They wait
To cradle fallen trees of snow.
Standing tall,
Arms stretched to sky,
Fingers cupped to clouds,
They only want what finds them.
Snaggled, barren, and dark,
They trust in their position,
Each believing
The pieces will find their way.
The trees do not uproot themselves.
They do not bend ‘til breaking.
They do not …
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