an old bearded man under the tree
with a saw tape to a broom handle
slowly cutting willowing branches
to clear his view from his window
i was told he doesn't own the plant
doing city a favor for lack of funds
no wonder i have to change lane
so branches won't scratch my roof
grass are as tall as deer; they'll fall
nice if it's green; when dry, i fear
astray sparks might consume whole
take down trees leaving ashes for all
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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