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Pining

The coniferous trees surrounding me
are blackened by some past flame,
the memory of which leaves
its mark on bark indelibly stained
the height of man. The carpet below
seems untouched and unaware.
My heart is scorched by unseen fire
whose source I can only guess:
the absence of one pair of eyes
half-a-world away. I hear
her whispered voice caressing needle
and tree, and now I find myself
surrounded by countless voices and faces:
sad and strangely lonely today.


To support the poet’s benign coffee addiction: Coffee.

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