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SCRUB PINES

Once after slow careful ages 
We spoke volumes with single words
Vast forests of conversation
Where every nuance rose like some tall sequoia.

When did angry words first burn 
Through our dialogue, devouring
Verbs and adjectives in tongues of flame?
That cruel inferno burned out long ago
Smoldered and died, but even so... 

All we are left with are these:
A tangle of weeds, patches of sand,
And a wilderness of second-growth trees.
To the casual observer the scars are hidden:
Warm life from cold ashes, better by contrast, 
But now mere scrub pines stand 
Where mighty redwood grew.

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Aching
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Be Strong My Love
Commuting
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Cross Pollination
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Poetry Juice
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Rorschach
Roses in Winter
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