Thursday, August 02, 2007

The tree by the wishing well
Hunkers like an old man
Fishing corroded coins
With great gnarled fingers
Some days he shivers
Through the not-so-gentle balding
As autumn plucks his hair
And I wish to
Wrap him in a blanket
And his hands round a mug of tea.

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After a busy day when confronting admin

 We must all come  Find ourselves And we will all be found Regardless  As the sun finds the morning As breath finds the lungs As I am found ...