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The soft-tipped Tree
sways in the wind
and under the clouds
that Change brought.

But the black and white shadows
at its base stay solid,
and do not rhyme with
the color or in the words,
although they burn with trouble.

And
while the sunlight is still slanting
upon the red needles,
the blue bark is also grey and they,
the gathered and rejoicing butterflies and birds,
are careful not to touch
it since it may be rotted in
the core
and prone to break.

But still,
they worry vaguely for the time
when the Logger may come with the Saw -
to cut it down.
Creative Commons License
Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
:iconakage:

Author's Comments

This is a political poem I wrote on my old typewriter one evening. I've only gone through two drafts and am not sure how it'll hold up.

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September 4, 2008
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