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Dread Dutch elm disease is back
After thirty yearsí reprieve.

The trees that grew up hopefully,
Now again we grieve.

Thirty years ago it hit;
Stately elms began to die.

We went for all the remedies
To save what pleased our eye.

We cut and burned, disposed of trash,
Agreed to immunize them.

We planted germ resistant strains;
We would come to prize them.

So, now, weíre cutting down the dead,
Dispose of whatís unsightly;
Some citizens donít follow suit,
A thing we donít take lightly.

This time itís not priority,
Gross corpses to remove
And itís beyond our power
To move others to improve.

So the gray, gaunt spectres stand,
More weird, perched on by crows.

Resignation reigns supreme;
We hope theyíll decompose.

An optimistic thought comes forth,
Relieves a bit our dread;
Soon leaves will fall, and we wonít know
Which of the trees are dead.

©2010 Carol Morfitt

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