In the dead of winter

when cones are clustered

on branches that bristle with needles,

roots gripped by frozen ground,

and buds in the scud not born,

I watch the pods on bushes

that bob in the wind across the lake

as if I heard a sermon in the cold,

and hearken to a blessing of the seeds

inside the latent packets cased in ice,

but it is a mass of breath that drifts

to the end of a pier, and when the wind

takes it across the ice on the lake, I know

… given the ragged bark and resin … no,

I won’t remember the cold … not at all.


One thought on “Pines

  1. This is one of my favorites… and they keep coming!

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