Next to the Oldest Oak Tree 

That’s where they gather the most, 
the moss
and the moments 
that remind them they’re free. 

There are three small pines 
where they’ve cast 
their shoes. Here they 
pause to remember their past. 

And then there’s the moon. 
Eyes and swords skyward,
they whisper thank you 
to stars, and know they’re home. 


Catching up again, backwards. Because in November we poem, even when things get crazy busy.

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