Grandma Cottonwood
Grandmother Cottonwood’s leaves glistened.
Shaking their silver sides against the breeze.
Glossy and pointedly sculpted, a few listened.
As her main twig rolled up his sleeve.
I had not seen a talking tree since Babes in Toyland.
Expected some marching and a mariachi band.
The woods were unnaturally quiet and stark still.
North wind providing a coldish autumn chill.
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