Gold in the West
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Chatter of the Aspens
The Aspens Quake in mirth and prayer,
a mystery as to what they see –
yet bound to me in youth’s memory.
The Sierras are grand in boulders of granite,
and trees that scrape the heavens;
but when all is but remembering,
I am called by these simple trees…
as gold comes early –
just for me.
2 Comments:
A lovely poem, faucon, and an equally lovely memory.
Vi
Splendid! Aspens, the dancing trees.
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