Thoughts on Trees or Tree’s Thoughts

White Pine
I am the top of a white pine
One hundred years old but young
for the likes of my kind
like those that grew as lone wolves
gnarled and crooked, still aging
some dying, but those still thriving
are no longer alone.

I pierce the sky, but I feel no tension
air’s transparency, no puncture wounds
only punctuated falling of needles
to gravity’s pull, yet I’m furred all year;
unworried about cold or starvation
the only things I fear being strong winds
and saws.

Balsam Fir
Christmas we smell or sweet clean cabin
from the needles dropping a death scent
toward country home pillows

Yellow, Silver, Gray Birch

My nails curl under bark layer, the first
pulling off thin gray strands with a little twirl.
Could be shredded tissue paper tinted yellow
ready to surround a silver plate or other gift

Shredding tree skin only happens
when I can carry it free from the ground;
when it’s not respiring but
rolling or almost crackling in a fire

Cork bark, thicker, is green under silver
and oxidizes from peach to golden brass
but smells distinctly, temporarily
like wintergreen, like grocery candy aisles.

Creative Commons License
This work by Sarah Holmes is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

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