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…..

Related Posts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *