Naked branches of November's oak
grasp at dawn's slate sky
before the lake's mirror
as though for sustenance.
I stand at water's still edge,
seeing the tree's perfect reflection
gnarled in umber chaos,
reaching for proof of truth
in the wasteland of decaying society,
that there is still a connection
binding us through turmoil
of death, separation and change
intruding upon our modern lives.
Leafless limbs reach...
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