at the ends of newly pruned branches, the tree
has so much potential again. new leaves 
like flames erupt in early light; the echo of the blade 
has faded between cracks in the sidewalk. 
even there, green thumbnails announce they've grudgingly
overcome resentment. abundance or profusion:
don't they go both ways? we drown in too 
much rain. we rot in the sun's too warm attentions.

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