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Winter Trees
by Louis McKee

With the leaves down
we can see the bones
the green poem clung to,
the frame, the form,
now just so much prose,
fat wood that harbors
nothing lyric. While we
have a clean go at it,
we bring out our saws;
a bite here, a quick cut
over there; we can
have a better song
come spring. We may
get an end we can live
more happily with,.
and in the fall, perhaps,
she will be standing
right here beside us.

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