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Feb 2021
if I touch him
he’ll splinter. Bare
as the trees in winter. He wrestles
as the leaves. And he

nestles in the wood. Bark peeling
as the paint on my hood. The robin
doesn’t nest. The squirrel doesn’t
run on his branches. For friends

he’s none.  Even the woodpecker
hasn’t a slot! His trunk has holes
as fisherman’s knots.
sandra wyllie
Written by
sandra wyllie  56/F
(56/F)   
132
 
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