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Pines

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I like to stand
under the pine trees
during a rain
or against the winds.

They are warm,
warmer than the oaks
that leaf through summer breezes
like thin linen sheets.

I follow the birds,
perching in the limbs
before migrating to the south.
I bite the needles for my nourishment
like a baby at a mother's breast.

The cones are rockets
with little people inside who are waiting
to land
and explode in the soil.



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