Green Poker Chips on Trees
The whisperings of bees crowd my space,
As I look at the green poker chips on trees.
I enjoy the scents of those leaves
And the peace offerings of deer
And the smoky beast of the fire
As it rolls so confidently upwards.
I carry no weight here.
Separation from city life,
With its "grandeur" facade and "hip" whatever
To a high mountain top
Truth is found-
-In all its majesty,
In all it's layers and textures and colors
And, however ironic, simplicity.
And now, when I grow weak from life's denigrations
I remember green poker chips on trees,
And I am thankful.
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