Written by Jane Ellis Morrow, Jane Trigère’s mother.
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Now, strong stalk, once bent under berries, stand
Erect and gaunt, sapless and dun. No fruit grows
And the north wind insinuates among the naked thorns.
Oh, the time then the berries grew heavy
And even the dew was warm and the branch bent
Grandly and every day was forever and a breeze
Could bruise any tender, pliable part!
The stalk, woody and wintery, remains
Erect and gaunt. No fruit grows and the wind
Whines in the thorns.