A poem I found a few weeks ago that's been running around my brain for some reason:
In autumn we planted a maple.
Why then? Who knew.
A city boy, all I knew of seasons was shovel and sweat.
But, well-schooled
I researched: fall is planting time.
Thanksgiving marks hope as much as gratitude
that what will be is more than what seems.
Many seasons on, my children's children
play in that maple's shade.
City children, yet rooted still to the soil
and to the turning of the world.
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