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The Fire Burns
Poems
Aug 2017
Pines
The smell of turpentine
as the needles poke me,
underfoot and overhead,
greens and brown surround me.
The lush carpet barely makes a sound
as the needles interwoven flex,
an occasional cone sits on the ground,
a glob of sap sparkles in the sun.
Written by
The Fire Burns
M/Artesia, NM
(M/Artesia, NM)
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Keith Wilson
and
Book Thief
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