Birches need to be subdued
And are to be kept straight.

The glass of our sacred sky
Lies in hill as in a car crash.

Splinters shine as tiny suns
Fallen from the bent birch.

Some boy had to climb sky
To make trees green sticks

So like soft children’s bones
They do not break on a fall.

If there is wind, they bend
But come back to standing.

Birches are not dad- owned
But some boy has to climb.

A tree stood in street corner
Some boy had not climbed.

Against recent wind in rain
It had no green stick bones.

(Reading Robert frosts’ poem “Birches” )

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