I love the old trees
That look like arthritic hands
Grabbing hold for dear life
In dirt, or shale, or sand
Holding up their shaking limbs
To nest the weary bird,
Or clapping to the passing breeze,
To the rhythms all four corners have heard
Old enough to remember in circles
The complexities of time,
Still full enough of life in their heartwood
To rest in peace sublime.
viewingcamelot 
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