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in the back of his house there are blue

Sherry Quan Lee

trees, thirty feet tall, thick
like history.  The spruce cast
shadows aqua blue, baby
green.  Seeped in mystery.
Each tree a pyramid.  Sun-
light slinking around another
untrimmed day.  A trillion
angels' wings almost touch
dense ground, hang down, test
space.  The stamina of miracles.
Each needle rests on protective
limbs.  Trust measured in
increments of relationships.
The tops of blue spruce are almost
there.  That's where she is
now.  Between sky and earth.
Surrounded by Scotch, Norway,
Austrian: White pines.  Somewhere
at the top spider webs stop, are
neither intricate nor beautiful.
Beauty is white lace, only if
you are a woman wanting, or
snowflakes on the tongue if
she hasn't already tasted metal.
Sometimes a butterfly hovers
near and she feels freedom.
But, is it what we imagine?
Love mocks tenacity as well as
flight.  Love.  Feverish fools
have the answer.  Love.  Every
inch of every thirty foot blue tree. 
Love.  Angels' hair laced
with black spiders.

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