The old man in the back stands, thick-waisted and stark.
He reaches for the sky, roots planted in the earth.
Loves the sun with his life, though the moon keeps his heart.
He has offered shelter and given his breath.
Through summer's green and lush, through winter's cold and bare.
The old man in the back stares toward the mountains.
Watches the highway and whispers to the distance.
The old man in the back knows we have trespassed.
You are GOOD. Hope you still write.
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