Pine

The wood that stocks the fireplace is the same as built the walls. Does one tremble for the other’s fate? The walls stand staunch, chinks filled, timbers set, saw ends smoothed, cabinet doors pierced through with china knobs. They do not tremble; they cannot.
     The smoke from the firewood whispers out over grey and emerald grasses, between the fraying birches, through the spider’s nets to its swaying erstwhile sisters. Particles settle onto bark, glide into resin, drip a slow ecstatic drip to the raven's raucous call. They fall with young cones into leaf mould; they pine for their varnished brethren indoors.

Image: Trip Advisor.
Written in Antigonish; in memory of E. Bischoping.
Posted to dVerse Poets.