Another tree grows into site so we flit our wings and change our mind,
and though the storm reveals a weathered hand,
we little birds get whirled around and lose the trail to lonesome lands,
a flash of red amongst distant pine,
just the hint of a spark to reset our hearts on fire,
urges forth a new beat, new pulse to guide us to our tree of life,
bearing different fruits and different truths that we consume the same as last we came,
but the smell of pine was forced unto,
those red fruits hollow that seemed anew,
so we arrive in lands where no trees grow,
on distant soils where seeds are sown,
a land where nature inspires nurture.
To where? We will never know.
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