These once-were trees
Trod upon light
And heavy
Brace the morning
Early with footsteps
More than one hundred
Years old
These ghosts
Proceed me
Everyday as is
Their habit
To noise up
The house
Killing time
With their tone
Waking to chore
The day width
It’s hours
I day of
A dream where
My will can be read
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2018
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