by Georgetta Garcia
The tree spreads its branches toward the night
casting shadows on the weeping weeds,
torn and cast about by time's careless scythe.
Leaves caressed the edges of the last worn branches
near the meadow's light.
The wind danced as unbridled passion fanned
flickering flames on yesterday's dreams.
Hearing the plantive cry of the wind, rain poured
down pleading in vain for solitude once more.
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