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A garland cinquain about the Blue Ridge Mountains, somewhere in the South.


Submitted:Feb 1, 2013    Reads: 15    Comments: 2    Likes: 0   


Mountains,

high above the rolling hills below,

peaks dotted with the trees

and little homes

of wood.

A town,

beneath, with whispers of smoke and voice,

leaving trails of both,

rising high up,

freely.

Sunlight,

behind shrunken giants of old,

now wreathed and aged,

shrouded in blue,

alive.

To walk,

alone along well-worn trails,

though seldom used now,

hear the soft day

come down.

Leaves,

shed by eager trees, for winter,

not yet in with her cold,

swirling colors,

timeless.

Mountains,

below, whispers of smoke and voice,

now wreathed and aged,

hear the soft day,

timeless.





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