Cypress
By Jane Clarke
Falling in and out
of sleep all night
he suddenly struggles
to sit up.
Will you open the curtains
so we'll see the dawn when it comes?
He gazes out
at the cypress
that in his lifetime
grew higher than the house.
A tree that survived
every winter’s wind;
its trunk ridged
as a raised bed ready for seed,
feathered foliage
set to sprout flower balls,
exposed roots,
worn bare as bones,
branches touching the ground,
forming a haven –
a tree to sit in,
quiet, waiting.
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We had rain for quite a bit of Tuesday, though it stopped long enough for an afternoon walk. I had a pile of work and chores to get done, anyway, so that was fine, other than squirrels who were trying to steal birdseed breaking my pretty glass bird bath, requiring some careful sweeping and taking care of some cut fingertips. My Voyager group watched "Displaced" -- which none of us really remembered, and it started all right but dragged on and got sillier the more we learned.
Then Paul
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