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I thought that I could surely be
a poet with wisdom of the trees

if I could use transmogrified
and keep the meter in full stride.

But in my search for helpful muse
my eyes the night sky did peruse

and it was then I chanced to see
amidst tall trees so shadowy

the stark bare branches of an elm
with full harvest moon at the helm,

A work of art with tiny stars
to sparkle back-light from afar.

‘Twas God who made that handsome tree
then stripped it bare so regally.

Exposed and trembling, tempest tossed
no poem is born without a cost.

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