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Jackie Wilson May 2017
young trees
gaze skyward,
their branches thick
with a visual feast
of floral shish kabob
prepared in sunshine
with a rain marinade,
a treat
of the season.
Jackie Wilson Mar 2017
a cupped bush
holds a fresh-fallen sundae
of creamy new snow
topped with sprinkles
of tips and leaves.
Jackie Wilson Mar 2017
framed in a roof window,
a tree
plays a symphony
of motion.
the trunk
conducts the separate sections
of branches and twigs and buds,
blending them together
into one harmony of movement.
Jackie Wilson Mar 2017
shine their sight
into the dark crevasses
of my hidden being,
flushing the petrified turmoil
from the arteries
of my emotional life.
Jackie Wilson Jan 2017
a day
is a temporal dragonfly
into the wide-open spaces
of infinity.
Jackie Wilson Nov 2016
A November tree
spins a spider's web
of branches
silvered with a dew
of morning sunlight.
Jackie Wilson Oct 2016
here stood a pine tree
with broken parts,
abruptly removed
for the safety of all.
no time to say goodbye,
leaving only a headstone
of perfumed white stump
heaped with flowers of wood dust
and neighbors waving their branches
in funereal hymns of wind.
it loved to chat
with the other trees
and was a friend
to the neighborhood
it is missed
by the squirrels and the birds
and me.
rest in peace.
This poem is about a pine tree in front of my window that split at the top, so the management decided to have it cut down to be sure it wouldn't fall into the building or come crashing  through someone's window.  I just got up one day and it was there as usual and then I left and came back a couple of hours later to find it gone.  I realize the necessity of doing it, but I wish I could have had some advance warning to get used to the idea.  So I wrote this poem for it instead.
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