There are no trees to cuddle

There are no trees to cuddle.
There are leaves but not shadow.
There is a girl under the post,
under the sun, an outlaw.

The grass in pinnacles.
Corks no more an obstacle
for the light to burn
the dark of the crowd.

There is silence, no background
waiting to do or
waiting to happen what the memory forgot.

Or maybe all of this is wrong
and what it wasn’t, is now.
A new relished hope,
than even a post,
a memory of a tree, returns. 

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