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The Kilmer connection

He watched carefully as the patrol moved. The G98 was raised slowly and the sniper picked his target. A soldier slightly off to one side. The shooter adjusted the sight and as the man slowed down a little, pulled the trigger. It was the First World War, a man named Joyce Kilmer received that bullet and died. He was a poet and one of his poems fits into the category of over used, or does it?
For the last few months, as I have been out on a trail or walk, trees have been noticed more. Maybe it's because I'm bored walking the same old paths or perhaps my eyes are trying to tell me something. Whichever it is, trees are making their mark.

by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But ...

Getting dressed.

Over dressed.

Always dressed


Last days.

A new born Sycamore.

"...only God can make a tree."

. . . . . . .

Go ahead—you figure out how to put the bark on.

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Jul 10, 2019 at 1749
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