The
forester philosopher, Aldo Leopold, once wrote, “Acts of
creation are ordinarily reserved for gods and poets, but humbler folk may
circumvent this restriction if they know how. To plant a pine, for example, one
need be neither god nor poet; one need only mellow loam and a shovel that
sings…”(―from, A Sand County
Almanac )
 |
| Pinus lambertiana Watercolor by Elise C. Bush |
On an Air of Possibilities
When the first rays of April sun glance golden
off the row of gray pine – a verdant buffer
against
Columbia River Gorge
winds and
trailer park rowdies below –
there comes the annual click, clickclick, snap click
of pine cones opening to release winged seeds –
tight
conical cones relax in warmth
like our
bones after cold wet winters
in the northwest – like our brain’s stuttering spark
ignites a moss-covered dull hibernation –
these
chattering cones surrender their
windburn
wisdom with our bare wishes
Pining
Awake today
to the towering
sweet Sugar pine
red bark trunk
deeply ridged wisdom
guiding you skyward
toward a canopy
of emerald protection
from too much light
be your longing
be-long
where you belong
in the between
red bark trunk
guiding you earthward
toward thirsty roots
that draw
from an underworld
too deep
where Iroquois buried
their weapons
under the Tree of Peace
be your longing
be-long
where you belong
in the between
Awake today
to the massive Sugar pine cones
that both drop
like torpedoes of intrusion
and lie nestled in needle duff ‒
their complexity and power
their longing to belong
resides settled
in the between
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