These trees against the evening sky,
the blackest Friday of the spring,
like the man stretched out
they have borne the winter's fury—
and now only wait in the quiet
for something new,
which the echoing birdsong may awaken,
till stepping from that
borrowed resting plot of earth
(for the world is not yet our home)
they may new gardens make
where their great green arms will
spread in adoration.
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CHRIS