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Treesong

Through breathless moonlight mist she weaves
Scattering light between the leaves
At this dark wanting late night hour
She slows the cold damp winds in power
Her dress is spun from spider silk
Her hair hangs damp with dews fresh milk
Her toes are bare and thick between
With mud and grass; soil and green
Her dance sways gently back and forth
Her song a sweet but rough discourse
Her flesh is dark with deepened scars
Ringed with wintry seasons past.

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