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The Ponderosa Pines hunched ponderously,
Their convoluted gestures frozen
With dry, rasping limbs in stages of vexation
And narrow forearms lifted high
In savored moments of exalted epiphany.
My brother and I climbed the questions
sing in me, O Muse, the plight of the second generation american;
she is a girl with brown eyes and skin and hair,
with $300 Beats that match her silk headscarf affair.
she brings “exotic” food to school,
and cringes when lentils get on her skirt of tulle.
I hastily picked my feet up out of the snow to uncover a pair of warm brown boots that had been hidden under layers of white fluff just moments ago. The cold wind pierces my bare cheeks as I charge forward, breathing heavily to reveal a cloud of warm carbon dioxide.