Mar 26

Tip-toeing

Cold winds tug my hair
out from under my wool hat,
letting it flap against my head,
wild,
like everything here.

My arms,
wrapped around the weathered trunk,
hug me tight to the swaying tree.

Night tip-toes in,
and begins to
slowly rock the land,
easing it into peaceful sleep.

No longer can I tell
where my arms become
the tree.
But what does it matter?
About the Author: Seldom
It's easy to stand with the crowd. It takes courage to stand alone.
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