How like a golden harp you stand,
Your branches tunes strings in the hand
Of each capricious, taunting breeze
Denuded faded foliaged trees.
While your neighbor mimosas like ancient gods
Chatter among their brown bean pods,
You lend your branches to the wind,
Who breathes new songs as they weave and bend.
And though your leaves staccato down
To make gold-paved your street of town,
You sound the mellow season of
A lilting litany of love.
~ Nora S. Bair
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