Dying Tree
High somewhere on a hill once grewSpreading limbs of light into the air
Far above roots below which grew
Twisting writhing fingers into
Soils ancient and new at one
Time was present and withdrew
In alternating patterns of shape and space
A hidden mirror in plain view
Now conceals an obverse face
Pondering still,
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2021-09-15 at 00:33
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