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White Oak

By John Robert Quinn / June 6, 1991

The old tree Has just wakened.

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The sun, scarce more

Than a promise, takes

Its time as usual.

Life proceeds

In due course; the tree

Is not worried,

Having managed

For countless years. It's now

Past eight o'clock

On a flawless June morning;

A million leaves have let loose

Their joy without warning.