The Xylem

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Standing in the forest,
I was breathing the morning air,
Until an ominous object
Began sawing off my hair.

They took me from the forest,
To a place dark and small.
And like a piece of lumber,
The ripped me with a saw.

Then I was sent to an old farmer,
Who measured me with care,
Before he cut me again
And pinned me in the air.

For a hundred years I stayed there,
Through rain, and sun, and snow.
But now I sit in a classroom,
The title of this poem.





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