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The Redbud Tree I await the telling signs of spring. Like the robins piping sweet melodies, The returning green onto the earth And the smell of the crocus in the breeze. From this frozen dark December night, As winds blow against the frosted panes, I slip away from consciousness Into the world imagination reigns. Within a woods beyond the meadow, Beside a flagstone-layered stream, Adorned with shades of lavender, The Redbud grows, in my dreams. Douglas Fletcher 04/30/02 |
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