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Aug 2017
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.
The Fire Burns
Written by
The Fire Burns  M/Artesia, NM
(M/Artesia, NM)   
88
     Keith Wilson and Book Thief
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