Even as the murmurs of coming
Spring breeze through the land,
so the masses of Beech,
aged and infant both,
sprout their glistening silver buds-
the conical essence
of bright green tender leaf
curled brilliantly within,
to come forth ,
in their own time.
While last year's leaves
are a golden staccato
throughout the forest,
wherever you look-
and now do slowly detach,
blown or stormed or
rained to the ground-
an iridescent, detailed,
exquisite story
of the year just past.
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