Poetry

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Oak

This ancient tree,

Not yet kissed by the warm lips of Spring,

Still bears me gently into its arms.

    (There's something about a hug,

    Something joyous.

    Something forever.)

Its small buds teeter on the edge of new life,

Then fly into gentle green.

The tattered old leaves of last Summer

Still rustle feebly in the breeze,

As their children come to see them off.

    (There's something about a hug,

    Something joyous.

    Something forever.)