Treetop Song
It knows its own voice
When light shines
through its leaves; made
For bird prodigies.
Sun is hung up to stay
In green notes high and low.
Through its veins, there is
a rhythm for the gifted stems
to grow.
When my soul's tune cannot
be read, and is ragged-prone,
I hear the wind within its branches;
It reaches out for the bruise—
To home.
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