My Family Tree

My family tree leans hard,
branches loose. When the

meadow is golden and
the hills ramble toward sun.

Hedonists gather at its base,
hands clasped, gazing up

into the luscious canopy,
wide-eyed with jealousy.

Sheep graze at its base
and shed themselves on the

bark, before bleating tales of
solitude. My family tree is

imperious when shaken,
with broken limbs it

jaunts in driving rain. The
axe-wielding menace is

coming again. My family
tree is humbled sometimes,

though enamoured when
a bounding youth climbs

and climbs.



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