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Winter

The rain cascades playfully,
Washing the solid bark
Of the old ash tree.
The joy of children’s play,
Now needed, far from ears
So old and wisened.
Yet the wren remains,
Steadfast in her watch;
Awaiting a new spring
When the joy of her newborn
Will rival that of the innocent.

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Comments


  • Candy6
    December 2, 2008
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    This is a beautiful winter poem