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  • I am not worthy of my cherry tree.

    It is a miracle. Huge green woodpecker-infested ancient lichened branches dripping, in early summer, with uncountable crimson-bloody gobbets. Looking up towards the sun through your branches, I bless something numinous.

    Maybe the god of cherries. Or woodpeckers.

    Decades of producing cherries for other people. Now you produce them for me.

    When the sun shines I pant in your greenish shade.

    When it rains I hide under your stiff, handsome leaves.

    I am not worthy.
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