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Jun 18
In my youth
the trees sung to me
their arms reached out kindly;
those giants who shaded me
from the brightness of the world
enabled me to later return
in the entrenched skin of a man
and at breaking day,
repay them harshly.

As the rusted teeth of the saw
bit deep into their bodies
I marveled at how their backs leaned
as they peered into final sky,
seeing only unfeeling blue
and not the caring green heads of neighbor.

My aged hands ached
from the effort and rotted task
of misdeed
and all too late,
did I remember that past smile
as arboretum became mausoleum;
now my gums bled freely
from my own hand's past neglect,
as I struggle to remind myself
that I was once born from the same soil.
Written by
Andrew Layman
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