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Several years ago I took a winter trip. Road trip down the west coast... top to bottom. Bellingham to Bakersfield in twenty four hours towing the 'caravan' we bought from the Scottish couple who'd grown to old to travel that way.
Made a left at Bakersfield and headed east. Traveled thru Arkansas after an ice storm,
miles and miles of glistening crystaline trees... too cold to talk they were.
Ended up in North Carolina.Went to see my girl's land in Murphy which is just down the road from the Joyce Kilmer Hickory Forest. A National Park I believe it was.
Of course the Park was at some little altitude, and when we arrived we found snow on the ground. Off we set on the hilly trail to Mr. Kilmer's monument.A large grey and green rock with a plaque afixed to it amongst a random scattering of tall, dark and brittle trees.
His profiled bust, burnished by weather and time looked resolute in his WWI uniform and helmet.
There lay his countenace in effigy,rapt in a timeless dialogue with
his everpresent chapel of friends. Brown grey and leafless in the cold snow, like so many old ghosts raining down frozen syllables in the wind.
His reply rustled in fallen leaves.
...I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.

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