Tall, thin, sparse
Jack Pines straining, attaining
Spindly heights
Crackling dry and spaced like dominoes
Arranged by a petulant child
Red needles acrid and desiccated tumble
On imperceptible 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 unimportant
Soil figmental
Water but a nebulous presence today
A random stone; here, an arbitrary intruder
Irrelevant
The solemn stanchions matter now
They are everything
Spiking their way into this world
From a dimension unseen
Silent masters
nicely penned.so poetic Robert.nice topic.gives me the feeling of silence this silent masters poem.love it.voted 10+++ cheers~nb
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A pine prickly yet commendable freeverse poem i enjoyd.