The mighty oak 
falls to the saw 
and as it crashes 
dreams 
of acorn days 
gripped in the mitten 
of a child, 
streaking down 
a snowy slope. 

“Someday 
you will be 
a sled,” 
the child whispered 
to his friend, 
now, at the end, 
the falling tree shouts, 
“Rosebud!” 
and nobody knows why. 

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