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Davina E Solomon Aug 2021
An evening set in metered rhyme,
of pinecones, gainfully bracted
in the manner of spiralling time.

No perfect measure yields a woody cone
although conifer strobilus gilded ratio makes.
The standard mesh of numbers alone

symbolise a hope that a glorious God
assembled in a perfect factory line,
this defiant change to perfectly flawed.
https://davinasolomon.org/2021/07/18/no-perfect-measure/
Alan S Jeeves Jul 2020
Here I grow, a handsome fir tree
Standing upright within my wood;
An innocent, then let me be.

Where now I thrive for all to see,
Strobilus stemmed out of the bud;
Here I grow, a handsome fir tree.

Today I prosper, living free,
As streaming sap spawns my lifeblood;
An innocent then let me be.

Forever green and wild are we,
My friends and I'd age if we could;
Here I grow, a handsome fir tree.

The gentle breeze may hear my plea
And listen to me as it should;
An innocent, then let me be.

So, man is come to sever me,
To rob me of my livelihood;
Here I grow, a handsome fir tree ~
An innocent, then let me be.

ASJ

— The End —