Lost in a tunnel of trees
green boughs drop arms
burdened with a white cold.
They are speaking to me.
The windows are up and
I’m driving too fast. I want
to hear but fast is better.
Is this the way it really is?
I believe in their wisdom.
I'll slow down and make
pretend meaning with words
like mine.
I could just open the window,
accept the scent of cold and
hear the whispers of green, wild air
in what echoes, what hurts inside.
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