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When the autumn leaves fell from the tree,

she shook her head, and in the wind, her hair flew free,

and when a cloud passed before the sun,

her smile flickered, and was done.

She turned her hazel eyes from me,

the way the bird flew from the tree.


In its bed the stream was low,

sown with rocks that broke its flow.

On the bank the tree was bare as bone

while her lips were half frozen into stone.



When the branches of the tree were bare,

and shivered in the autumn air,

filled with clouds, the sky was clay,

and her golden hair seemed like it was gray.


I recalled the leaves bushy on the tree

when she shook her head and her hair flew free,

and when the clouds opened before the sun,

her smile blazed as if she and I were one,

and she turned her hazel eyes on me

the way the birds sang in the tree.

The Tree

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