Battleground 

It stood in the middle of her garden
this magical tree of power,
each season a gift given
she raked them into a pile.
Gleefully falling, burying, hiding,
passing along the fruits,
these golden eggs of liberty
she gladly kept and gave.
Promises of a battle won,
she read their poems
and they read hers,
and all lived happily ever after.

Poetry

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