The cottonwood,
trunk split into two sections
by a lightning strike when it was young,
stands alone on the crest
of a small hill,
with a set of crystal wind chimes
hanging from a dying bough.
Clinging tenaciously
to its ancient limbs
yellow leaves,
in harmony with the wind chimes song, waltz in the cold autumn wind,
Under the tree
sets a handmade wooden bench
its blue paint faded to gray.
Clouds on the horizon foretell
the years first snow,
the wind increases
as the clouds approach.
In a hallow between the trunk halves,
two letters signed: “Yours forever”
unfold and floating
out of their hiding place
blow away.
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