The razor cold breeze whipped at the small child.

For the tall pines grew below the cliff—no help--

And offered their apologies in their own way,

Filling the air with their sharp centric scent

And swaying like an ocean of green in the wind.

But, that day, the boy could not tell trees from tears,

And he could not smell aught but what he tasted:

Just copper and sa...

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