Beech tree crook pools,
the poet's mind,
trickles of prose escape,
dried in Woodland's shade,
dappled Field Fair feather's light,
the eye of readers blind,
words that drift to mist.
Such is it's need for Summer Storms,
these pools might overflow,
where rivers of poetry flow in bark canyons,
verdant leaf light burning bright waterfalls,
cascades in miniature,
filling root ringed Fairy pools,
reflecting Rainbows of a passing gift,
here we readers drink,
refreshed in Soul.
Rain passes once more,
Beech Tree crook pools hidden high,
saved for those who sup the source,
only reached by those who fly.
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