Dying Tree

High somewhere on a hill once grew
Spreading 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
Read 338 times
Written on 2021-09-15 at 00:33

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