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October 12, 2007


Leaves on the ground blow briskly in the crisp, dry wind of Autumn, scattering the richness of Summer over the dirty earth like money on the bed of a whore. Those last vestiges of life on deeply corrugated branches hid the shame of scarred and sinewed trunks.

This scene eats at my heart for all those opportunities that could have been; for all that green that could have been used; but lost again and laid upon the soil. The cycle of endless toil creates another masterpiece of pain and pleasure.

In one single moment I see the stillness in that long tunneled moving mass of golden gifts from static beneficent woody wondrous creatures that chose their spot when only small. Only small like an acorn with nothing but trust and hope and some bitter spittle cusp of life to embed some roots and take a chance.

And maybe, maybe once, deep within that chamber of echoed friends where small animals and birds nuzzled comfortably at home, the heartwood sang its patient song; another season passes in pleasant, aching, lovely life deep in soft supporting snow, in waiting for another show.


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