by Taylor Graham
Last night the horses stood
huddled under the great black oak,
their breath steaming, each nostril
a damp hibiscus opening in the dark.
Now through the window, I see
that same oak shivering
black-trunked in the not-quite dawn.
And now, the sun comes
shimmering through the branches.
Even the stoutest, oldest
tree flings wide its light-
struck leaves, its outstretched
golden hands in all directions
How could this house
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