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Trees in Winter
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Blackened skeletal hands,

stretching forth to a leaden sky

from their shroud of virginal white.

They are unadorned,

bereft of the green rings of spring,

or golden bands of autumn.

No  feathered friends nestle in the gnarled fingers,

singing arias so sweet,

as among the fingers they play hide-n-seek.

For now, the hands thrown heavenward,

seem empty and dead.

 



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