Bonsai, tree in pot,
Can out live their creators.
Family tree, heirloom.
The roots, so shallow
On my weeping fig, I dream
At night it dances.
Every Autumn day
The tiny trees feel the change
But in a small way.
Hands hold the blue sky,
Green leaves cradle the white clouds,
Slow muscles stretch bark.
Pruning a Bonsai
Teaches one to look forward
And forget the now.
The Colors of fall
Reflect ever so slightly
On a potted tree.
It’s sad that the only ones to read my poems are bots.
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