This day is almost over.
These few hours.
I have not spent them on you.
I am not a tree.
My limbs will not hold still to gather
flakes or other debris.
I am not a prairie,
flatness unbroken.
I am pine trees and spires,
rolling hills for the shadow to nestle and the light to play
on.
I look for the sky to my line.
I have reached and stretched today,
tossed my laughter upward
and felt it echo back.
Is there more up there to you?
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