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The trees can't believe we
give each other gifts as they are dying.
The firs whisper secrets
to stay alive in winter.
The maples die quietly.
They want to be alone.
You have stamped yourself upon me
with the holiday. You are the gift I
We talk about God.
Who else could have invented such temperatures?
The oaks are restless for an answer
before all their leaves are orange.
Somebody is reading a story, aloud.
I stay outside to hear how it ends: shivering, but
listening, because the last word is "spring".
Your secret is inside of me, a beehive queen.
We hum, and sleep, and wonder when
we might emerge and sing.
Just ask me.
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