The mulberry fell to its knees;
in Smith-Gilbert Garden, it prays,
near the moss-stone steps;
and I look on, in curiosity.
It was an oddity, but I learned
of its plight. In sorrow, we make
it right, a great fall onto infrangible ground.
Like a bonsai tree, twisted.
Listed, like a ship at storm,
but sailors will never use nets,
to cast, for silent butterflies;
In...
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