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3/12/2013 8:44:46 AM
Initials Initials

Our broken oak slain, fallen,
No longer tall and tenderly
Protective of the ground
Around her rooted feet.

What blow? What sleet?
What natural feat of strength
Has stolen her shadow
From our picnic place?

A swooning summer proposal
Lost as we lay
Steeping in the grass
Staring at carved hearts.
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