by Win Wenger, Ph.D.
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Sleepy trees in December sun,
Luminous blue porcelain behind —
I hear you settling in…..
Did I only dream you bore
fluttering green,
Gold and green softly sighing?
The taste of sun in the air?
Wet bank, wet mud, wet leaves
Fill the air without ever leaving the ground.
Close in, I see your tops fall away to the sky
Only suntastedreams left behind.
—ww, ca. 1980