I am no painter, nor photographer,
Brush strokes seldom strike what words can.
When a painting of a tree is nothing other,
I can show what you cannot see but understand,
A mother, spreading her children through the world,
A sentinel of time, the elder of shade,
The home to many furry animals curled.
To the stars it
reaches, in heaven’s whisper, wades.
Barricades to the
cities, on cliffs above beaches,
A phoenix of seasons only human can hinder.
A memorial to the lovers’ eternal preaches.
Leaves painted yellow, orange, and fresh cinder.
To paint a tree on paper could not be plainer,
But to paint the mind! But alas I’m no painter.
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