I am not the jagged pine
who weeps aloud at span of time
And condones the needled hush
at breeze
which forsees repeat
of thought of these the clockless
soil and sky and creek of bend
in life subside.
Until the winded track of plight
all renders still
the dark of night
til morning dew of diamond orbs
plead clear blood on greenthin sword
in royal chartreuse and sprucy blue, tightangled scotch
and norway true
And bark so smooth of sleek white pines
with needle tufts like gentle brush
caress the face with needle feel,
aroma scent of cedar teal
While cones dot still brown blanket ground like late dusk stars fix silent sound…..
