Tall, thin, sparse
Jack Pines straining, attaining
Spindly heights
Crackling dry and spaced like dominoes
Arranged by a child
Red needles acrid and desiccated tumble
On waxing expirations of August
The wood of the Pine
Is it the true medium?
North and South; a million miles of matchstick sentinels
East and West; an eternity of needles, sap and peeling, scaly bark
The hills are less compelling than the trees
The timber is the thing
An aggregate that overwhelms the matter that sustains it
Trunks, branches, needles
All
Air becomes unimportant
Soil figmental
Water but a nebulous presence today
A random stone just an arbitrary intruder
Irrelevant
Only these solemn stanchions matter now
They are everything
Spiking their way into this world
From a dimension unseen
Silent masters
Jack Pines straining, attaining
Spindly heights
Crackling dry and spaced like dominoes
Arranged by a child
Red needles acrid and desiccated tumble
On waxing expirations of August
The wood of the Pine
Is it the true medium?
North and South; a million miles of matchstick sentinels
East and West; an eternity of needles, sap and peeling, scaly bark
The hills are less compelling than the trees
The timber is the thing
An aggregate that overwhelms the matter that sustains it
Trunks, branches, needles
All
Air becomes unimportant
Soil figmental
Water but a nebulous presence today
A random stone just an arbitrary intruder
Irrelevant
Only these solemn stanchions matter now
They are everything
Spiking their way into this world
From a dimension unseen
Silent masters
Robert Gallagher
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