And they scold me harshly sometimes
I still love and want them to be free
Like the one who hides in my tree
Knitting blossoms out of scraggly roots
Gone deep to get that certain blue
Her sense of humor requires
How many spilling buckets must be
Carried upward by a million workers
Famished by the sun
To construct a single panicle
But here are hundreds culled
Like little jokes or jibes
To cheer the tragic
Music of a day
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