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The Pine and the Willow Pond
The old, lone, pine,
Down by the willow pond,
Moaned and ached,
In the cold blown wind,
During the winter months.
Drawing its dark needles close,
Like a shaggy green coat,
As if to block out the loneliness.
The young, blush pine,
Down by the willow pond,
Sighed mournfully sweet,
In the gentle wind's whispers,
During the spring months.
Stretching it's branches wondrously to the sun,
Longing for the warm companionship.
The whippy, strong pine,
Down by the willow pond,
Burst with pride,
Emerald leaves swaying in the breeze,
During the summer months.
Standing proud and unashamed,
It never once felt lonely,
Or at least it could pretend.
The shaken, stooped pine,
Down by the willow pond,
Shivered and trembled,
In the back and forth gusts,
During the autumn months.
Realizing it was by itself,
Alone in a sea of willows,
The only pine down by the willow pond.
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