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Joe Hill
Poems
Oct 2013
The Tree Named Depression
Autumn leaves exposed nerves,
not ready for winter.
Toes gasp through clay,
never long enough yet
flayed arms extend.
Fingers fall from reach,
sapwoods freeze like blood
beneath blizzard winds.
Spring is too late.
Written by
Joe Hill
30/M/St. Paul, MN
(30/M/St. Paul, MN)
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