My branches may shiver and my roots rock in the dirt. My dark colors too, add age beyond my expectancy. I hide in my layers, waiting for the scent of green. It will, I am sure, come for me.
Wait for my leaves to dance in sunlight, drawing circles in the breeze. Stand under them to twinkle starlight in the midday sun.
Take these fruits I saved in winter; harvest me.
Come spring I will feed you nectar of bees's envy.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
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