A pine tree has a coolness
that imparts a blue tone
to the discomfort of its needles, and
I have seen its spines of shade
and known that love can be as painful
as much as it can be evergreen.
These pine trees,
their trunks can grow broad enough
to hide a man in,
a coffin for a god,
can stretch high enough to climb skyward,
but still, at times, not refrain
from snuffing the whiteness of stars.
And their sap flows with the moon,
in cycles, as the syrup of kinder words wanes,
though I appear untroubled, allow the disinfectant
of their resin to ward away the inconvenience
of possession of any blame.
Despite this, these pine trees,
they have marked the graves of losses
and mapped my route of regret,
they hang my memories on the snags
of lower branches and notch out
the lengths of their tall lives.
Younger years survived, I divide what remains
between this forest of dependents,
from lichen scale to blooms of chanterelles
in symbiosis and creeping ladies tresses
to the crossbills who call out
their celtic-voiced reminders from red limbs
and who pluck the seeds from fertile cones
until I burn the timber to invite a warmth back in.
Image from pixabay.