Chore-worn hands work this branch
into a new, crude instrument.
As the branch dries, the whistle will not sound;
a summer when I learned decay's okay.
Chore-worn hands tremble as they clutch
a pine-wood cane--stoic and coniferous.
And as I make my way back to town,
thoughts stay buried where alders grow.
My friend entropy, always there for me.
What knows it's naught, it begins to rot.
Strive to be like you--stoic and coniferous.
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