My Country - Poem by Tim Carlson
Where I live grows a tree,
It has seen eons, and is infinite,
But the moss has grown,
And the borish brown of age
And experience, extinguish,
The differences it has lived with,
Touched by few, my hand connects,
With the rough brown, scarred skin.
Her hand, of late, felt old.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You