Across the canvass that is mother’s landscape -
Witnessed by masses of green trees
That seem the same but different; one cannot escape
That each is described by how science sees:
A trunk, branches... rooted
into the ground;
Annual growths come and go thru all the seasons
yet, though time waits not, the tree is still found
waiting, waiting for the eye to behold the poetic reasons
For a tree’s connection to the generations,
That come and go - as leaves,
While profoundly remaining at the core of one’s intentions
And, beyond anything one doubts or believes.
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