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  • Writer's pictureAnne Mitchell

Sacred Space

Sky

of Lapis

frothed clouds sail in with the west wind,

valley heat teases sea.

Chaised, gaze up at old pine tower,


thank

him for roots

held fast through sixteen stormy winters,

then drought that fissured bark.

Today, needles glisten in dew,


dance

like icicles,

sparkle in the sun - I see you, hear

the wind’s harp in your boughs,

feel the torque, smell the pitch, as you


drink

mists of sea.

When I go, feed the fledgling redwood

by your side, should axes

arrive, drop limbs on view-seekers.


Let

the old trees

outlive collectors of trophy homes.

As the moon shadows through

time, I’ll swing in your canopy.




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