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Weak blades curl over
They stoop to cover their young
as the wind rushes across their backs.
It picks off color bit by bit,
until their green has been drained to the roots
and the gray sky is restored to blue.
It seems there is nothing left.
But with their skeletal golden frames,
they shroud emerald sprouts
from the icy eye of the sun,
until he looks upon his brightened world
and his gaze at last is warmed.
