Here lingered the steps of thy halting pace,
‘Midst shadows frail and fleetingly spun,
Of trees born in jest, in whimsical grace,
With neither trunk nor bough – yet fronds.
Fronds: “Fronds”
By
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Here lingered the steps of thy halting pace,
‘Midst shadows frail and fleetingly spun,
Of trees born in jest, in whimsical grace,
With neither trunk nor bough – yet fronds.
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