Free Verse - Monday One Stop Poetry

Last Summer

Our forty-foot fir tree

died last summer;

The finches still perch

on its gray-brown limbs;

A woodpecker beats

for bugs on its bark;

The red-shafted flicker

wails a spring song;

And in the burst of spring

as its limbs gray

and its needles fall

I mourn its death;

A mourning dove cries

at the setting sun.

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