What the Seasons Afford
August 9 2020
A small white pine,
richly greened
and whip-strong straight
has taken root by the shore.
Where it stands tall
amidst all the spindly spruce and weedy scrub
that, according to nature
will colonize any opening
in this overgrown forest;
like relentless invaders
who worship the sun
and furiously compete for space.
Its mature counterparts
march up the slope behind it,
lofty and elegant
as white pine are;
casting shadow
and holding the soil
and dropping their seed,
of which almost all
will die, if they aren't eaten
or subsumed by earth.
With gratitude, I think of the man
who might have stood in my place
a hundred years before,
when this country was wild and remote
this lake barely known.
Eyeing another upstart pine
and recognizing his transience.
That he would never live
to see it in its prime
as I am thankful to.
That time favours the patient,
who stand their ground
and take what the seasons afford.
What will the world have become
when my pine is fully grown?
Will the prevailing wind
have forged a graceful bend?
Will an abundance of water
have made it tall?
And will there be someone, in turn
to stand in my place,
admiring its height
and strength
and glorious crown?
I am humbled by my trees,
as if I am an intruder here
and they its tolerant sentinels.
Because while they remain
we come and go.
So I will leave it to my descendants
to mark the progress
of this nascent tree;
content to admire its progenitors,
and hoping it will manage to thrive
so exposed and alone
on this rocky shore.
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