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