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two bird flying near a tree

I choose to languish
among darker trees;
ones that still possess
truth in their
greatness.

As though some sage
would remember them there;
densely dispassionate,
darkly morose, to interpret
their quiet, somber thoughts.

Their casual slow groaning,
faint creaking…leaning
in dead wind
of oblivious Winter.

Could great things rise
beyond dying remains
of such debris?  Rise
superbly from cloaks
suffocating cold gray branches
so cruelly?

Truly they stretch mightily,
colossal yet unseen, save briefly,
by dark birds drifting
against the dying contrast
of a stark sky.

I choose to languish
among darker trees;
ones that still possess
truth in their
greatness.

(older poetry)