Hardwoods

On the east side

Of the clearing

At the ox-bow

On the Sandy

There's a fir tree

Growing up from

What remains of

An old maple

(The evergreen

Deeply rooted

In the flesh of

That toppled thing).

Take this on faith,

You'd bleed for proof --

A bramble wreath

Obscures the seam.

Those trees with leaves,

All the hardwoods

Nestled amongst

The conifers

Of this valley,

Those we watch turn

And drop their limbs

And sometimes fall,

Those we consult

And lie below

For perspective

On self and time,

Those with soft skins

For us to score

With our titles

So we might see

Ourselves erased,

So we might learn

Our lives amount

To only scars

Slowly fading,

So we might guess

Eternity

By complement,

And salvation,

So we might know

Liberation,

Those trees with leaves,

All the hardwoods 

Nestled amongst

The conifers

Of this valley:

Those trees wear crowns. 

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