Old Pines

On the south facing slope
dry, warm dust of
clay cliffs.
Fuzzy crocuses.
Some sleepy,
some stretching
high, to the sun lit sky.
Blades of grass,
pushing green,
growing.
Bright leaves,
slowly unfolding
like arms,
like art,
swirling vein patterns,
demanding nothing,
but gaining all of my
attention.

Walk slow,
through these forests.
Stop, often.
Bend to touch.
Feel the moss,
the lichens,
No longer brittle but,
still firm,
still aching
for a moisture
only
spring can give.

Everything is waking up,
new.

Wind through
the slender pines.
Fresh sap,
oozing, slow.
Glistening
gold
in beams of
light like,
Flickering smiles.

Find your way to
the north facing slope.
In the shade,
be humbled by
this rare view.

Stand above,
the tallest,
the oldest pines.
A deep olive sea of
ancient bark-bodies,
swaying
through time.
These pines
have seen the fuzzy crocuses
yawn open,
like dawn.
These pines
Have felt the baby blades of
green grass,
tickling their old trunks.
These pines
have watched all the soft buds,
like tight hugs,
unfurl.

When these pines sway,
they sound like water moving.
Their old branches
making beautiful songs,
bringing tears to my eyes.

These pines have seen everything waking up new.
They have too, seen the lush
grow tired,
colors fading,
blankets of
cold.








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