conifer (n).

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I now understand the growing of trees, 
their rings showing all of the ways
they have survived their previous selves. 

I now understand what it is like
to watch all of the color fall out and away
and wonder if there will be
another day that the wind will
brush through your hair and write
a song with the sound, and wonder
even what the ground is made of
that you were planted in, surely
this isn't god's green earth. 

I now understand the growing of trees,
their branches spilling out of them like arms
reaching for contact, reaching:
is there a posture more defiant
to any force trying to make them
recoil back into winter's cold breath?