There's a tree which stands a hundred feet beyond my window
It's twice the height of the house next to it which -- this
much I can tell –
It strives to ignore. The people in the house think of it as
their tree;
The tree doesn't think of them as its people. Every winter
I see the new pattern the year has made from its branches
I've known men (I am not one of them) who'd see at a glance
Why the branches seem so urgently uplifted and why
They sometimes shiver on windless days.
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