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The paper and tree—

 

Ink wandering across the page to find meaning,

 

something.

 

White surface dreams wait to become…

 

The peeling bark is old.

 

Roots sewn into history,

try to form a new flower’s purpose.

 

So many seasons of disappointment.

 

Still, a bird upon its branch flies free.

 

The air, sadly in between, wants wings,

 

hope on a breeze.

 

I am—

 

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

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