We, the people, thus believe
The roof of heaven must now be leaved
After the storm
Hence, why we grieve
The sund’ring in
So oft sentinel
Beside the lines
Of migrating geese, and bass, and times
And streams of cars and trucks revealed
While standing lonely in its field
Why grieve a tree
When aged homes were swept to sea?
Because it died
As commodity
When we have always seen
In it
Something more



Doer and Dreamer, happy anywhere the snow flies.

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