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Instead
I limbed the dying
leaves and branches.
I painted it yellow
to catch the sunlight,
red to fill the gash
infuriating the trunk
where decay had set in.

I kept what I could.
All ribs and spine,
chalice of air,
a mouth of thirty tongues
beseeching the sky.
Some branches were dancers,
arms extended in fifth position.
Others writhed from crimes of excess.

I pondered my new genre.
You must come see my yellow tree.
I began to laugh and entertain.
Slowly, I started
mumbling to the wind.
I thought I felt
a tuft of green
sprouting like a frilly hat
from the dancer’s head.
Or was it only a dream of greenness?

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