The dance, the pie, the treeline.

The row of oaks in front of the firs.
A place to start.
Bare limbs enfolded in wintergreen.

The timing is always off.
She found her second chance, again,
in a string of dances but it didn’t match
his resolve which was like an acorn
fifty years on.
She even watched other women
but they seemed know
how to separate pie from fiction.
But she kept at it, month after month,
toiling away in place, barely blinking.
A dream framed in evergreen.
There were days the pie was perfect.
But others when she forgot the steps.
Sometimes, she just enjoyed the dance.


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