The rutted spine of the trunk
Curves into a sponged sky
Diffusing to branched nerves
That feel at blankness of clouds
A scarred shell of bark
Thick coils of wood winding
Up to brittle stems webbed
Higher than a spider’s range.
The dim arrival of twilight etches
Its figure onto a pallid canvas
And wisp ends of branches are
Bleached out by the gray
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