Soon it will be too late to tiptoe
and too early to wake the sleeper
who continues to press meaning off the edge
of neverlasting springtime
content to see the irises curl up and dry
never daring to mature with the live oak
as it sends new shoots from gnarled branches
and leathery leaves open onto a straw hillside
overlooking still another vast ocean.
Who will gather fruit but the
bushy tailed squirrel who jumps
from limb to limb gnawing on acorns
and burrowing in the shadows of her crown.
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