Untitled #7 Twenty pine cones gathered at the feet of a young pine, huddled together for warmth among the ice cold due drops of morning. Maybe the wind invited them to meet or some brown-furred and fastidious creature had a moment of fleeting aesthetic choice.
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Poem #192
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Untitled #7 Twenty pine cones gathered at the feet of a young pine, huddled together for warmth among the ice cold due drops of morning. Maybe the wind invited them to meet or some brown-furred and fastidious creature had a moment of fleeting aesthetic choice.